Counterpoint
by AnnMagda
Summary: My name is Meg Giry. You do not know me, and in the eyes of the world, I played no part in the disaster I am about to relate. But I was there. I saw it happen. And I knew Erik. You may well forget my name, as long as you remember his. Modern day. COMPLETE
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

There were four of us in the car that night: my mother, her brother-in law Martin Daae from Sweden, my cousin Christine and myself. We were on our way home from the concert hall, where Martin had performed as a soloist in Mendelssohn's violin concerto with the city symphony orchestra. It was a rainy Thursday evening in late February, just about a month before Christine and I were to audition for music college, she as a singer, I as a dancer. As I remember it, this was the last night all of us were happy. It was the last night of that time span we would late refer to as "before it happened".

I don't really have any recollection of that other car hitting us. It was only later that I could piece together the puzzle and make sense of what had occurred. Apparently, the left side of the car had been hit by a drunk driver who was speeding past a red light. Martin, who was in the driver's seat, was severely injured and died before the ambulance arrived. I got away with a concussion and a broken leg. My mother and Christine both had minor physical injuries, but Christine was never the same after having watched her father bleed to death.

The weeks that followed were very difficult for all of us, especially Christine. I knew she was heartbroken at the death of her father - I have never seen a parent and child as close as those two were. Her mother, my aunt, had died shortly after Christine was born twenty-one years ago, and since then, her father had taken care of her on his own, treating her like a princess, making sure she had all she could ever wish for. It was he who had encouraged her to sing, and she did indeed have a remarkable soprano voice. However, after the accident she seemed to lose all interest in singing. It was probably too painful for her.

As for me, I found out my leg injury was such that I could no longer expect a future as a professional dancer. This was an enormous disappointment to me, especially since I had dreamt of being a ballet dancer ever since my first lesson when I was four. Being the daughter of former prima ballerina Marie Giry, I was eager to live up to my name, and my mother was a demanding teacher. Now, sixteen years of hard work seemed in vain. Yet, I couldn't allow myself to speak about this, since I felt it would have come across as selfish and ungrateful. I reminded myself I was lucky to be alive.

The only one to keep a cool head during all this turmoil was my mother. It was only what could be expected of her - she was a realist and very familiar with the hardships of life, after having fallen in love with my father only to be abandoned by him when it was discovered she was pregnant. Now, she made all the arrangements for Martin Daae's funeral, while simultaneously looking after Christine and me the only way she knew how - gently but practically, without a trace of sentimentality. She convinced Christine to stay here in France and go through with the auditions for music college in our home town, and suggested to me that I might apply for the music education program, so that I would be able to earn my living as a teacher. We both did what she said, more to humour her than anything else.

In May, Christine and I got our acceptance letters from the college. Christine's performance at the audition hadn't been outstanding, but it had been good enough. I had passed the entrance tests, and since my grades from high school were decent, I was offered a place as a major in music education. Mother offered Christine to stay with us during the first year of college, since she didn't know many people in France, and I was enthusiastic at the idea - my cousin and I had always got along well.

School was to start in September. Slowly, it seemed like things might calm down and settle into a new kind of "normal" state. But, as it later turned out, this was only the beginning. The accident had left both Christine and me scarred, vulnerable and open to suggestion and manipulation. That is the only way I can explain what happened to Christine, and why I didn't do what I could to prevent it.

My name is Meg Giry. You do not know me, and in the eyes of the world, I played no part in the disaster I am about to relate. But I can tell you things that you never heard on the news, things that weren't in the police report or even in the tabloids. Because I was there. I saw it happen. And I knew Erik.


	2. Chapter I: The Beginning

**Chapter I: The Beginning**

My first day in music college was very long. Isn't it always like that? The first time you experience something or go somewhere, time seems to stretch out infinitely. Then, as you become familiar with the impressions and you settle into new habits, you find yourself wondering where all the time went. Maybe that's why old people say that as you age, every year seems shorter than the previous one. They run out of first impressions. It's quite a frightening thought, actually.

Christine and I were both, I think, a little disappointed as we viewed the entrance of the building where we would be spending the better part of four years. Nothing in its appearance revealed that it was a place dedicated to the arts. It was a large, quite ugly, square yellow brick building, supposedly drawn by the same architect who had constructed a nearby prison. However, the crowd of students that was gathering inside seemed cheerful enough, so we went in.

"How can I help you?"

The institution secretary was a thin, friendly woman in her forties. She bore a slight resemblance to a horse and was in fact, as I later found out, very fond of riding. It was her job to help all the new students find their way to their classes.

"Meg Giry and Christine Daae", I said, as Christine seemed to have spotted someone in the crowd and was not paying attention to the secretary.

"Meg Giry, music education..."

The woman looked in a pile of paper and found my schedule.

"Your class will meet at 9.30 in the concert hall. As you can see some of your individual lessons have not been scheduled yet - you need to visit each professor in his or her room this afternoon to schedule a weekly lesson. Christine Daae..."

Chistine turned, startled.

"Christine Daae, singing. You will meet your professor, signor Piangi, at 10 in room C302. Here is your schedule. Oh, and you will need to have your photos taken for your ID cards at some point during the day. Just come in to my office and we'll arrange that!"

We thanked the helpful secretary and went to sit down in the cafeteria. It occurred to me that I hadn't even picked up her name. I asked Christine about it, but she was absent-minded again. I followed her gaze. It was fixed on a tall well-dressed young man with blonde hair and clear blue eyes. He was very handsome in a fragile way.

"Do you know him?" I asked.

"I think so", answered Christine hesitantly. "At least, he looks a lot like someone I knew as a child. But it might not be him. Even if it is, he probably doesn't remember me."

She sighed. I didn't question her further on the subject.

During the 9.30 meeting in the concert hall, I found out the difference between studying music and studying music education. While Christine was off showing her vocal skills in front of her professor and the other voice majors (so she told me later), I was with my future classmates, playing childish games - "team building", an enthusiastic young professor explained to us. We were sitting on the floor of the stage in a concert hall which was located in the centre of the main college building. In the ceiling above us was an absurdly ornamented chandelier, completely out of place and probably put there by the interior decorator in a fit of megalomania. It looked dangerously heavy and I noticed how everybody had avoided sitting directly under it.

"Now stand up and find a partner!" exclaimed the enthusiastic professor I was later to know as Mlle Popeau.

I turned around and found a small brown-haired girl standing next to me. We had time to introduce ourselves quickly - her name was Jeanette Jammes.

"One of each pair is blind, that is you close your eyes", continued Mlle Popeau mercilessly. "The other one is your guide and will lead you around the room. This is a trust exercise."

I closed my eyes and Jeanette, or Little Jammes as she later ended up being called since she had an elder sister who was a flute major, walked me across the stage.

"This feels stupid", I whispered. "It's not really what I decided to go to college for."

"Me neither", Little Jammes whispered back. "I only started music education because I didn't pass my first-hand choice."

"What was that?"

"Flute, like my sister. She's better than me, though. I'll apply again next year."

"I used to be a dancer", I confessed. "Couldn't apply though, because I was in an accident and hurt my leg."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." Little Jammes sounded genuinely sorry. "Well, there's always next year, right?"

I didn't answer. I knew only too well that wasn't the case for me, but I couldn't bring myself to explain that to someone I hardly knew. Instead, I changed the subject.

"So, since you have a sister here, she must have told you all about the professors beforehand?" I asked.

"A little", Little Jammes said. "Who did you get?"

I thought for a while, trying to remember the names on my schedule.

"There was a M. Reyer in choir and conducting", I said, "and a Mme Dubois in singing. I don't remember the piano professor's name, it was something Russian..."

"Ivanovich?" guessed Little Jammes. "He is useless, or so I've heard. Too old. Mme Dubois is all right from what I've been told. M. Reyer is nice, but not very demanding and probably doesn't have a lot of musical imagination. He'll do a good job but no better than that. Who else do you have?"

"Several others, but I don't remember their names. There was something about my music theory professor, though. I only got his Christian name, but no last name. Surely, that must be a mistake, though? Should I go to the secretary and have it sorted out?"

I heard a sharp intake of breath behind me. Little Jammes's grip on my shoulders tightened.

"You got Erik?" she whispered.

"Yes", I said, "that was the name. Who is he?"

Little Jammes was very agitated. She started talking quietly and eerily, as if she were telling a ghost story.

"Nobody knows his last name. Nobody even knows what he really looks like, since he wears a mask at all times. He has never been seen without it. As far as I know, he has no known address or phone number. He doesn't have many students, either, only one or two every year. I think the management wants to get rid of him, but for some reason they can't, so they let him stay and do as little as possible. It's strange, really, he could be anyone! Maybe he's a witness to a terrible crime and has to have a protected identity, or maybe he's a criminal himself, or maybe he's really two different people and wears a mask to hide the fact, or maybe... maybe he isn't even human!"

I didn't quite know what to say after this dramatic ending. Little Jammes had spoken so gravely, and yet I couldn't see her face. She might be just leading me on and breaking down laughing behind my back. I decided to proceed with caution.

"So, what's he like as a teacher?" I asked.

"I don't know. I have never spoken to anyone who actually had him. A lot of people are afraid of him, even some professors. He has his room in the basement, far away from all the other classrooms, but he's rarely seen coming to the room or leaving it."

At this point, a loud announcement from Mlle Popeau made it clear that the class was over, and that we would resume our activities tomorrow. Thirty music education majors drew a simultaneous sigh of relief. I opened my eyes and blinked in the now painfully strong light of the chandelier. Little Jammes looked at me.

"I have to see my sister for lunch", she said. "Would you like to come?"

"I'd love to", I answered, "but I promised to meet my cousin in the cafeteria. She's new here, too."

"Oh well, some other time then," Little Jammes said happily. "But you simply must fill me in on all the details once you have had your first lesson with Erik!"

When I arrived in the cafeteria, Christine was already waiting for me. We took one look at the food they served, and decided to go to a nearby café instead. Over a baguette and a cup of tea, we compared our impressions of the morning. I told Christine about being blindfolded and led around the concert hall, and she just looked at me in disbelief. Then she, in turn, told me what she had been doing.

Signor Piangi was, so Christine told me, a rather pompous tenor with a high opinion of himself. He had made all the new voice students sing an aria in front of the class, and made a point of commenting on all the technical errors the singers made, even the ones that were clearly a result of nervousness rather than inability. Christine had sung Pamina's aria from the second act of The Magic Flute, a difficult but heartbreaking song I knew was one of her personal favorites. She had been criticized from start to finish, hardly being allowed to sing one phrase without signor Piangi stopping her and showing her, in his own voice, how it should be done. All the other new students had received the same treatment. All but one.

It seemed that one of the new singers was Carlotta Piangi, signor Piangi's daughter. She was a coloratura soprano and had doubtlessly received years of training from her ambitious father. However, Christine remarked, her voice was rather shrill in timbre and even though she was able to sing very rapid passages with near-perfect intonation, she lacked an ear for natural phrasing and paid little attention to the character of the piece or the meaning of the text. Nevertheless, she received nothing but praise from her father. I could see it had annoyed Christine, who has always appreciated the emotional side of music and made an effort to make conscious choices in interpretation, but the other singers had seemed dazzled by the sheer speed and agility of Carlotta's voice. Of course, it would not have been like Christine to speak ill of anyone, but in this case she had obviously considered Piangi's blatant favoritism of his own daughter an injustice not only to herself, but to several other gifted students as well, who might not possess Carlotta's self-confidence.

After lunch, it was time for Christine to meet her accompanist for the first time, and I went to fill in the blanks in my schedule. First, I went to my singing professor, Mme Dubois, to find a time for my weekly voice lessons. She was what Christine, who had more experience in the matter, would have described as a "typical voice teacher", a motherly, slightly overweight mezzo-soprano with carefully applied make-up and a certain fondness of gossip.

"Meg Giry, you say," she chatted, "do tell your mother I said hello, won't you? It's been years since I last met her, not since she retired from the Opera, in fact. Mind you, I always thought you would follow in her footsteps, so to speak! Oh, how thoughtless of me, you hurt your leg last winter, didn't you? I am sorry."

I nodded silently.

"Oh, I'm talking too much!" Mme Dubois continued. "Let's schedule your lesson, and then I would like to hear you sing something!"

After having found a time slot which suited both of us, a procedure which took a lot longer than it should have, Mme Dubois made me sing some scales and sightread a simple tune.

"Well, you're a soprano", she decided, "I can tell you haven't been taking singing lessons before, but you read music quite well, I must say, and you have a nice voice. M. Reyer will be pleased to have you in the choir, I'm sure. By the way, have you met him yet? He's a fine man, though I do feel sorry for him. He just divorced his wife of 20 years, you see. A ghastly woman, she cheated on him for years. It was terrible, he was heartbroken when he finally found out..."

"How horrible!" I said and excused myself quickly, since I had other professors to see before the afternoon was over. I could see that Mme Dubois would gladly have continued for hours filling me in on all the details of poor M. Reyer's love life.

Next, I went to M. Ivanovich, the piano professor. I quickly discovered that Little Jammes had been right in her judgment and that he was indeed "too old". I had to knock on his door several times before he heard me and answered. When I finally entered his classroom he just looked at me in amazement, clearly unaware that I was to be his student. It was only after consulting his papers repeatedly that he agreed to schedule my lessons. He was not interested in hearing me play, but gave me a copy of "Für Elise" and instructed me to play the beginning for him on our next lesson. I suspected he gave all his students the same homework.

The last person I had to see that afternoon was my music theory professor, that mysterious man only known as Erik. Having heard so many strange things about him, I was more than a little nervous as I searched for his room. I knew it was located in the basement and finally found it at the end of a long corridor. As I stood outside the door, which had no number and only the name "ERIK" scribbled in red ink by the handle, I discovered my knees were shaking. Maybe it was the darkness of the corridor, maybe the fact that all the other rooms there were spare rooms used only for storage, maybe the strange absence of any sound - whatever the cause, I felt afraid. I couldn't bring myself to knock on the door. And then I heard it: a soft, musical voice, seemingly speaking right into my ear.

"Meg Giry? Please enter!"


	3. Chapter II: Erik

**Chapter II: Erik**

Anything I might have imagined when listening to Little Jammes's description of Erik, could not have prepared me for the sight that met me when I opened the door to his room in the basement of the college. It was not a large classroom, there was only room for a table, two chairs, an old-fashioned blackboard and a grand piano. The walls were painted black and there were no windows. Instead, the room was lit by countless candles. The heat and the absence of air was almost unbearable, but what made my head spin was the strong scent of incense or Oriental perfume, and behind that, a weak but sickening smell I didn't recognize.

However, the strangest thing of all was the man himself. He was tall and thin and wore a cape of black velvet, almost like something you might see on a stage. His whole appearance was very theatrical. Like Little Jammes had said, his face was almost entirely covered by a white mask - only his chin and part of his jaw was visible underneath it. I could barely see his eyes, but they seemed to be a very pale blue, almost colorless. It seemed impossible to connect this figure with the soft, melodic voice that had just spoken to me. And yet, when he spoke again it was in that very voice:

"Welcome, Meg Giry. I take it my reputation has preceded me?"

I didn't know what to say, so I simply nodded. There is something very awkward about talking to a person without being able to see their face.

"As you must already know, I do not have many music theory students. You might say I pick my students with great care. Do you want to know why I have picked you?"

I nodded again, feeling too uncomfortable to speak. Erik continued:

"I have picked you because you do not want to be here. Am I not right? You do not want to be a music teacher. You do not want to play the guitar and sing nursery rhymes with rude children who can't keep their hands off the drum set. You want something entirely different, and what you want, you can't have!"

This was such a perfect summary of what I had been thinking the whole day, that I could only stare at him, dumbfounded. How did he know? And why did it even matter to him? He had spoken those last words with true bitterness, as if he spoke from personal experience.

"I used to be a dancer", I said. "I was very good at it, people said I was very promising. Then I was in a car accident and I haven't been able to dance since. But really I should consider myself lucky to be alive."

"That was the accident that killed Martin Daae, the violinist", Erik said, a statement rather than a question.

"Yes", I confirmed. "It has been very difficult for his daughter, Christine. She's my cousin."

"Christine Daae..." Erik spoke slowly, and in his voice, those words sounded like poetry in a foreign language. "She is a singer, isn't she? I remember having heard her name not long ago."

"She is new here, too", I said. "She has a fantastic soprano voice, or, at least, she used to. When Martin died, I though she would stop singing entirely. I think she has lost the passion for it - she doesn't really seem to make an effort anymore."

"It is very sad when that happens", Erik said, and there was genuine regret in his voice. "True talent is much too rare."

We were both silent for a minute. I didn't know what to say next. This conversation had already taken an unexpected turn and I felt a little uneasy about it, especially since Erik seemed to already know everything I told him.

"As for your lessons", Erik finally continued, "you may come at any time, any day of the week. It does not matter. The only thing I want to make clear from the start is I want you to take them seriously. I think you will - being a dancer you are used to discipline. Music is not a game, it is not entertainment. It is a fine are, a true craft, and it should be treated with respect. I know the management would like music education majors to study theory just in order to be able to write arrangements of Michael Row Your Boat Ashore for one flute and five bad violin players, but I won't teach that. You will study harmony, counterpoint and instrumentation. You will learn something about the heart and soul of music. You will not waste our time. Is that understood?"

"I...yes", I stammered. He had spoken with great authority, and his voice had changed. It was now resonating and powerful, almost frightening. For the first time, I noticed that despite his thin frame, he was probably a man of considerable physical strength. He was not a man you would want to argue with.

"There is one last thing", Erik said. "I am a very private person. I would prefer if you do not ask any questions about me. As for my mask, you will have to take my word for it when I say that I have a very good reason for wearing it. Also, I would advise you not to talk too much to your friends about our lessons. Not even your cousin Christine or the little Jammes girl."

I started when I heard Little Jammes's name. I had only been talking to her this morning and Erik hadn't been around then. Or had he? At this point, I started to believe he knew everything that went on at the music college.

As it later turned out, I was right.


	4. Chapter III: About Grief

**Chapter III: About Grief**

After my first meeting with Erik, I returned home in a daze. What kind of man was he? Who was he to more or less forbid me to talk about him, even to my own family? And why was I inclined to obey him?

It didn't seem so strange now that Little Jammes had never actually spoken to anyone who had had Erik as a professor. His students would not have admitted the fact to her. I didn't even know who his other students were, or even if he had any at all. And then there was the mask... No, it wasn't just the white mask which covered his face - everything about him was a mask, a disguise. I had been in his room with him for quite a while, and still I knew nothing about him. I didn't know what he looked like, I didn't even know when he wanted me to come for our next lesson, because, surely, he didn't mean I could come whenever I liked? That would be very inconvenient for him, since he would have no way of knowing when I was on my way. I decided I would have to return the same time next week, that was all I could do since I didn't have his phone number.

As soon as I opened the front door of our apartment, I knew something was not right. My mother was standing in the hallway looking concerned, and the door to Christine's room was shut.

"She has been in there for an hour", Mother said. "She won't talk to me, maybe she will talk to you. If only she were crying, I would feel more at ease. But now, it's just quiet. If she doesn't open soon, I think we will have to break the door down."

Mother deliberately raised her voice just a little as she said these last words.

I went to Christine's door and gently knocked on her door.

"Christine?" I said. "Are you all right in there?"

There was no answer. I waited for a minute or two, then there was the sound of a key turning in the lock on the other side. Christine opened the door and stepped aside so I could come in. She then closed the door behind me and went to sit down on her bed. I placed myself in an armchair facing her and waited for her to speak. She was very pale and had an expression of hopelessness in her eyes, a mood I had often seen her in lately. I knew she had been thinking of her father again.

"I can't sing", she finally said, shaking her head. "It's no use."

"What do you mean?" I asked, to encourage her to continue talking and get it off her chest.

"It's all so superficial, it's not real!" she went on vehemently. "All these operas, all these songs about great emotions. Great love, happiness, unhappiness - in the end it's all a show. None of those emotions are real, none of these songs can express what it feels like when you...when... It's all just a display of vocal ability. And what's the use in that?"

"I don't know", I said. I felt helpless, as you often do in the company of someone who is mourning a tragic loss. You feel you should say something, offer some consolation, but you can't find the words for fear of making it worse. And yet, that silence is the worst thing you could possibly do.

"Besides", Christine continued, "I couldn't sing if I wanted to. I just get tense, my breathing is all wrong, it's like I can't even catch my breath, much less carry a tune. It would take a miracle for me to make it through this year! I only wish..."

Christine's eyes went to the wall, where there was a framed photograph of her and her father, taken last year when they were on a holiday in Norway. She didn't have to say anything, I knew what she wished for.

Christine was not religious in the usual sense of the word, but she always did believe in the supernatural to a certain extent. We had talked about it in the past, one time when Christine and her father had come to France to spend the summer with Mother and me, during one of those long late-night conversations that always take place the last evening before visiting relatives have to go back home. Christine had confessed that she believed in ghosts and that she thought it was possible to contact dead people, and then she had suggested that whoever of us died first, would come and visit the others as a ghost. Martin had answered that if he died before his daughter, he would certainly not come back to haunt Christine, since he wouldn't want to frighten her, but that he would send her an Angel of Music instead, to make sure that she fulfilled her dream of becoming a great singer. After his death, this remark, probably uttered half as a joke, had taken hold of Christine's mind. She had talked about the Angel of Music many times, wishing and hoping that it would visit her with a message from her dead father. Whenever she was about to despair and give up singing altogether, like the day we auditioned for music college and she thought she would never be accepted, she spoke of the Angel and how she yearned for the smallest sign that such a creature existed. Today was clearly one of those days.

"Do you think the Angel will ever visit me?" Christine suddenly said, looking directly at me with her grave blue eyes.

I found it hard to meet her gaze. Personally, I didn't think there were such things as angels or ghosts. I have always been very down to earth in those matters and only believe what I see - a trait I inherited from my mother, I suppose. Nevertheless, it was obvious that Christine needed that hope right now, or there was no telling what she might do. Her mental state had already been a matter of great concern to Mother and me.

"Maybe it will, one way or another", I finally answered tentatively. After all, I thought to myself to justify what I had just said, the word "angel" can be used in the metaphoric sense, so technically, I wasn't telling a lie. However, I knew very well that wasn't what Christine had meant.

"If it doesn't come", Christine sighed, "I don't know how I will be able to go on. It's a dead end."

If she had cried or sobbed, if she had been screaming or throwing things, if she had been more dramatic about it and threatened to jump out of the window, that might not have worried me so much. But now, she just spoke quietly and calmly, as if she were stating an indisputable fact, and because of that, I was afraid.


	5. Chapter IV: The Second Lesson

**Chapter IV: The Second Lesson**

The week that followed, my time was divided between going to classes and keeping an eye on Christine, who seemed to be doing worse than she had in months. Since her father's death, she had been depressed at times, and understandably so, but she had always pulled herself together eventually, if only to do her vocal exercises or practice some aria. Now, she didn't even do that. She seemed to have lost all interest in music. I don't know what caused this change in her - maybe it was finding herself among other voice majors with whom she felt she didn't have the energy to compete, or maybe it was seeing the soprano Carlotta Piangi being encouraged by her father, in a way that reminded Christine of how her own father had once supported her.

The most alarming part of it all was that Christine had now stopped eating properly. My mother had picked up on it immediately. Being a dance teacher, she had had several pupils who had lost more weight than was healthy for them, and she knew the warning signs. I had met such girls once or twice myself and knew that it was a matter not to be taken lightly. Mother had instructed me specifically to make sure that Christine ate something every day when we were in school, and for that reason, I had to turn down several offers from Little Jammes to have lunch with her. She never stopped asking, though. Since it had dawned on her that I had Erik as a music theory professor, I had apparently become a very interesting person. Under the circumstances, I was only happy to avoid being asked too many questions. I wouldn't have been able to answer them anyway.

I don't remember much worth mentioning from my classes during this first week in college. Mlle Popeau kept giving us silly assignments for obscure pedagogical purposes, and there was a silent agreement between us students to humor her and hope to pass her class effortlessly. M. Reyer, the choirmaster, proved to be quite a sympathetic but weak character, who was happy once we managed to sing the correct notes at approximately the same time. He was the kind of person whose instructions you follow out of pity rather than respect. Then there was Mme Dubois, who gladly chatted away half the lesson before deciding that I needed to work on my breathing (she herself never needing to breathe at all between one juicy story and another), and M. Ivanovich, who had remembered our lesson but forgotten my name, and who subsequently listened to my version of the first page of "Für Elise" without uttering a word. I strongly suspect that he dozed off for a minute. If only I had dared, I would have tried changing the key of the theme from a minor to A major, just to see if he'd have noticed.

Finally, I had another lesson with Erik. I descended to the basement at exactly the same time I had come a week earlier, hoping that he would be a man of predictable habits. As soon as I came close to his door, however, I discovered that this was not the case. The corridor wasn't quiet, as it had been when I was last there. Instead, it was filled with the sound of piano music. And what music it was! I had never heard anything like it, even though I had spent a lot of time at the opera and in concert halls as a child. It had no melodic, rhythmic or harmonic pattern that I could recognize. Instead, it seemed like one long painful cry, like human agony set to music. It was horrifying, and yet I could not stop listening, as if the music had some kind of hypnotic quality. There was beauty in it, too, the frightening, macabre beauty sometimes seen in natural disasters - tidal waves, hurricanes, volcanoes, lightning. No ordinary person could have composed this music. And it came from Erik's room.

I stayed there, listening, unable to move a finger, for what seemed like hours. Then, suddenly, the music stopped and Erik's voice spoke:

"You may come in, Meg Giry!"

How he knew I was standing outside his door was a mystery to me. The music would have drowned any noise I might have made, and yet it was clear that he had noticed me the moment I arrived.

"You must think me rude for not letting you in sooner", Erik said when I had opened the door and entered. "I wanted to try out some ideas for a piano sonata. I'm afraid I tend to forget my manners when I'm composing."

"That was your music?" I gasped.

Erik nodded, rearranging some sheets of music on the piano. I could see that they were scribbled full of notes in red ink. As curious as I was to see what such remarkable music looked like on paper, I sensed that Erik would not want me to pry into the matter unasked. Instead, I sat down at the table, waiting for him to begin our lesson. Before very long, he started speaking:

"Now, since you are here, I take it you already know some basics in music theory. You scored fairly high on that part of your entrance exam. Nevertheless, it is essential that you do not have any unfortunate gaps in your knowledge, or it may undermine your whole education. Therefore, we will start with analysis and four-part harmony. When you master that, we will move on to the principles of counterpoint. Are you familiar with the works of Bach?"

"A little, yes", I answered.

"Good. That will make it easier for us when we get there."

Erik went on to explain the rules of four-part writing, illustrating as he did so with examples on the blackboard, which he then played on the piano. I was doing my best to keep up with him, but the heat, the dim lights in the room and the spicy scent of Oriental perfume made it hard to concentrate, and for a moment my mind wandered to what had been troubling me lately. Soon after, I noticed that Erik had interrupted his explanation of an example and was looking at me.

"Mademoiselle", he said with mock politeness, "I believe we have an agreement regarding these lessons. I do not wish to waste my time speaking to deaf ears."

I started. It was true, my attention had slipped.

"I am sorry, Monsieur", I said. "It will not happen again, I promise."

I hoped Erik would accept my apology and simply go on with the lesson. But instead, he erased what he had just written on the blackboard and closed the lid of the piano.

"We can't proceed", he stated. "It is useless trying to teach a student whose mind is elsewhere. You seemed a disciplined young woman when I last saw you. What has so distracted you?"

"It has nothing to do with school, I assure you", I said.

"Things that are a distraction usually don't", Erik said sourly. "What is it?"

"The truth is", I explained, realizing that Erik wouldn't give up until he had an explanation, "I'm very worried about my cousin."

"About Christine Daae?" There was a very slight tension in Erik's voice, which hadn't been there before. "Please, tell me what is on your mind."

I don't know why I chose to take Erik into my confidence. Maybe I thought that a man who could compose music such as the one I had just heard would be able to understand Christine's despair and give me some advice as to how to deal with it all. She had already lost a lot of weight since last February, and if nothing happened to turn the situation around, I feared that she would kill herself simply by giving up. I had read about such things happening when old people lose their partners and then die themselves shortly after. Whatever the reason, I found myself relating to Erik everything that had happened during the past few days - Christine's grief, her indifference to everything, even singing, her wish for the "Angel of Music" to visit her and finally my fear that she might be slipping away.

"There it is", I sighed when I had finished. "Now you know why I wasn't paying attention. I just don't know what to do, how I can help her cope with this. I can't imagine the pain she must be going through or what might relieve it."

"Child", Erik said, "I myself have experienced a lot of pain and suffering. If I were to give your cousin any advice, it would be not to give up on her singing. Music is not just a profession or a hobby, it can also be a lifeline. For some people, it is the very purpose of life. I believe Christine may be one of those persons."

"But she won't sing!" I objected.

"Still, I would urge her to do so if I were in your shoes." Erik was adamant. "In time, she will find her way back to her passion and it will be the very thing that saves her. Look here, I will do something highly irregular. Do you see this key? It goes to a spare room halfway down this corridor. It is only used to store old documents about former students at the college, old grades, copies of old exams. The only people who are meant to have access to that room are the administration staff, but they hardly ever go there, because nobody ask for the information it contains. Now, this room is not bad, acoustically speaking. I believe your cousin would find it an excellent room for singing, if she wishes to practice undisturbed. Nobody will come down here looking for a room or telling her her time is up."

There were two kinds of practice rooms in the college. The best ones were usually occupied by those early risers, usually violinists, who stood outside waiting at 7.15 each morning when the caretaker came to unlock the front doors. The other rooms were smaller and there was a booking system on the doors, preventing any one student from using them more than one hour at a time. It was not easy to practice without disturbance under those circumstances. Having a secret room of one's own would be a luxury unheard of! I felt a twinge of envy, but realized this might be just what Christine needed. I took the key from Erik's hand.

"How will I explain this to her?" I asked, looking at the key.

"Say you got it from a friend who no longer needs it. You may say anything, as long as you are discreet. As I told you, the room contains confidential information and it would not be advisable to let anyone know where you got the key. You see, I got hold of it merely by chance."

"By chance?" I asked. It was a strange explanation, I thought.

Erik didn't elaborate further on the topic, but only gave me an enigmatic smile, or what I assumed was a smile behind the mask.


	6. Chapter V: A New Christine

**Chapter V: A New Christine**

I did what Erik had told me to do, and gave Christine the key to the spare room. At first, she didn't seem to know what to do with it, wondering why I didn't want to keep it and use the room myself, but in the end, I managed to persuade her to give it a chance - she was much too talented a singer to just give up, and this might help her find some much needed peace to work on her own, away from other students or criticizing professors.

It was the beginning of October before I started noticing a change in Christine. This happened on one of the last warm days of summer, when all the students took every opportunity to go out into the courtyard during their breaks and take advantage of the unusually fine weather. I had just had a class with Mlle Popeau, and Little Jammes and I were chatting eagerly as we went outside. We were to work together on an assignment: building a "three-dimensional model of the perfect teacher". Going out into the sun, we joked about it.

"We could go to my place", suggested Little Jammes, "and bake a teacher-shaped bun! Then we could fill it with jam to symbolize knowledge!"

She chuckled.

"I think we should just make a life-size wax figure of M. Ivanovich", I replied, trying to look earnest. "Wouldn't that be something?"

"Or maybe", Little Jammes continued, "we could just bring a candle. It's the perfect symbol of a teacher - sheds a lot of light on things and gets burnt out quickly!"

I reflected for a moment. We might actually get away with that solution. However, before I could congratulate my friend on her idea, I saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks. Christine was standing in a corner of the courtyard, looking up at the sky. She was crying, her whole body shaking uncontrollably with sobs. I had never seen her like this before - she was usually a very reserved person who kept most of her emotions bottled up inside her. She was not one for making scenes in a public place. I went up to her quickly, followed by Little Jammes who was probably eager to find out what was going on. A few people were looking in Christine's direction, but nobody else approached her. She had not yet made any friends in school.

"Christine, are you all right?" I asked anxiously. Christine looked at me, trembling, with tears still running down her face. Now when I was close to her, I could see that her sobbing was mixed with laughter. She smiled at me and nodded.

"I'm fine", she said. "All this time... I was so afraid, I thought... But I was wrong, I needn't have worried... Everything will be fine now, of course... I'm just so glad..."

Christine burst into tears again. I couldn't make head or tail of her incoherent speech. She seemed to be experiencing some immense relief, like one who has just discovered that his greatest fear is unfounded. The darkness and the tension that had been present in her ever since her father's death had suddenly disappeared. I would have liked to ask her about the reason behind her sudden change in mood, but Little Jammes's presence prevented me.

From that day on, it was clear that Christine had turned over a new leaf. Her appetite returned, and sometimes I even heard her humming to herself in her room before breakfast. When I asked her about it, she was quite secretive and only said that she had become motivated to sing once again.

"In that case", I said, "maybe you could have some use of the key I gave you after all. Have you been down in the room yet?"

"I have, several times", Christine replied.

"Is it a good practice room?" I asked.

"It is very good for singing", she said with a smile. "I am so grateful to you for persuading me not to give up, you were absolutely right. And it was really nice of you to give me the key. I'm sure you would have liked a practice room of your own as well!"

"I thought you would need it more", I answered. "After all, I only study music education, so I don't really have to excel at anything specific. That room was meant for you."

Christine nodded thoughtfully. She looked as if she was about to say something, but decided against it. I didn't ask her any more questions.

The next time I went to Erik for my music theory lesson, I felt very light at heart. I didn't know exactly how, but his help and good advice had benefited Christine tremendously, and lifted a great weight off my shoulders in the process. Erik was quick to notice the fact.

"You are happy today, Meg Giry?" he remarked.

"Yes", I said. "I want to thank you for offering that room to Christine and telling me to urge her to continue singing. It has made all the difference in the world, more than I thought possible!"

"I am glad", Erik said, smiling. "You have done a good thing for your cousin, and for those who will be lucky enough to hear her sing in the future, I am sure."

"Maybe so", I said. "I am just glad that she seems to be feeling better. There was a time, you know, when my mother and I didn't know what she might do. We were constantly on guard."

"You do not need to watch over her anymore, Meg", Erik said soothingly. "Christine will be fine. She is not your responsibility."

It was the first time he had addressed me with my Christian name only. His voice sounded soft, familiar - the kind of voice you are willing to trust. There was also a lot of comfort in what he had said. Christine would be all right. She was not my responsibility. I didn't have to worry about her any longer.

From now on, I could occupy my mind with other things.


	7. Chapter VI: The First Tragedy

**Chapter VI: The First Tragedy**

I was very naive during those days. Why had Erik given me that key? Why was Christine suddenly so elated? If I had decided to look more closely for answers, I would probably have found them. Then again, if I had been more inquisitive, it might have been me in the ambulance that early Wednesday morning, being rushed to hospital unconscious with severe internal injuries.

Christine and I both arrived in school after it had happened. Little Jammes, who always took a pride in being well informed, filled us in on all the details.

"There has been an accident", she said, slightly out of breath. "In the basement. The institution secretary, Mme Martin, went down to one of the spare rooms to get some papers, you know they keep a lot of documents down there, apparently it was some former student from thirty years ago who had called, because he absolutely had to have a copy of an essay of his. Anyway, she went down there to look for it, and crash! One of the bookshelves fell down on top of her. She is very badly hurt, they say. I can't believe it, it's so horrible!"

She stared at us, waiting for us to react. I could hear the buzz from the students and teachers around us - everyone was talking about the same thing. It took quite some time before the crowd dispersed. Little Jammes, Christine and I reluctantly left for one of the large classrooms on the ground floor. Choir rehearsals should have started fifteen minutes ago.

M. Reyer did his best to gain the attention of his students. It was quite a large choir, made up mostly of music education majors, singers and church musicians. Now, most of us were whispering about the dramatic events of the morning, and it seemed impossible for poor M. Reyer to make us sing the opening chord of Schubert's Deutsche Messe. I could see him playing the notes over and over on the piano and raising his arms tentatively, only to lower them again with a deep sigh when nothing happened. It was painful to watch.

After a while I think more people noticed what M. Reyer was trying to do, because the whispering discussions gradually stopped. The choirmaster looked at us gratefully and gave us the beginning chord one final time. At last, we could start singing.

We had only completed eight measures before there was a knock on the door. Without waiting for a reply, the headmaster's assistant entered. He was quite pale and composed.

"Mme Martin is dead", he said. "She died before they could reach the hospital."

There was complete silence. Even though I don't think any of us knew the institution secretary personally, we were all moved by the tragic circumstances of her death. I remembered how helpful she had been when Christine and I arrived on our first day in school, and how I had not known her name at the time, but only labeled her "the horse woman" in my mind. I felt slightly guilty about that now.

Due to the tragic news, and possibly the fact that M. Reyer realized that nobody in the choir would be interested in what he was doing after this piece of information had been dropped, the rest of the rehearsal was cancelled. An improvised memorial service was to be held in the afternoon. Christine, Little Jammes and I all decided to attend.

"I am as shocked and grieved as all of you", said the headmaster as he began his speech from the stage in the concert hall. The auditorium was nearly full with students, professors and staff. Some had probably come out of genuine respect for the dead woman, others, I suspected, out of curiosity or maybe even as an excuse for skipping a lesson.

"We will remember Anne Martin as a kind and generous woman", the headmaster continued. "She had worked here at the college for ten years and always did an excellent job. Her skill and helpfulness made her a valued colleague, and her cheerful smile will indeed be missed. Mme Martin loved working here. But she was also a beloved wife and mother of two small children."

There was a sniffle and a cough. Someone in the auditorium was crying.

"She lead an active life", the headmaster continued. "Among her greatest interests was horseback riding and she had several horses of her own."

In the midst of all this tragedy, I found the headmaster's last remark singularly funny. It was just such a hilarious image, picturing the secretary, with her equine face, on a horse. I threw a glance at Little Jammes, and saw the corner of her mouth twitch. She had obviously had the same idea. As our eyes met, it took every fiber of strength in me not to laugh. I felt terrible. Here I was, at the memorial service of a mother who had been killed in an accident, desperately trying to suppress a giggle. And the more I tried, the harder it became. I dared not turn and look at Little Jammes, knowing that would only make it worse. In the end I had to simulate a coughing fit to conceal my laughter. Christine, who was sitting next to me, noticed what I was doing and was completely appalled. She herself was near tears.

At the end of the memorial service, Carlotta Piangi sang an aria by Händel, Lascia ch'io pianga. It was the first time I had heard her perform, and her voice was exactly as Christine had described it. It was a good voice, but it lacked the warmth and emotion needed for the piece. Instead, the da capo section of the aria was filled with rather tasteless ornamentations which were completely unjustified, musically speaking, but showed off Carlotta's high range. After she had finished, she stood on the stage with a smug expression and nodded at the audience, even though there was no applause due to the sad occasion. I instantly disliked the singer.

"After this day, I could do with a cup of hot tea and a piece of strawberry pie!" I exclaimed after the service was over. "Christine, are you coming?"

There was a small café near the college, and since our first visit there on the day school started, Christine and I had become regulars. I was particularly fond of their strawberry pie, which had white chocolate in it.

"No, I think I will go straight home", Christine said, a little thoughtful and, perhaps, slightly upset with me after my apparent lack of respect for poor Mme Martin. She left the school without another word.

"Jammes?" I asked.

Little Jammes replied that she had to go too, since she was already late for a yoga class. I was left standing outside the concert hall, watching other students slowly leaving it, on their way home or to a practice room. Then, I was struck by what I can only describe as a feeling of morbid curiosity. I found myself wandering around the college, slowly getting closer to the basement corridor where the tragedy had occurred. Looking around me with a vague feeling of doing something forbidden, I descended the stairs and went to the room where the accident had taken place. All the doors in the corridor were locked, but the room was easy enough to distinguish due to a small bouquet of flowers which someone had placed outside the door. I turned around - the key I had given Christine went to the room directly opposite this one. A vague fear crept upon me. It was as if the whole corridor was cursed, with its darkness and silence, its absence of windows or fresh air, its locked rooms which were not meant to be opened and, at the far end of it, Erik. Try as I might to brush this feeling aside as childish superstition, I could not bring myself to stand there any longer. I found myself running along the corridor towards the stairs. When I finally reached the ground floor once again, my heart was pounding wildly, as if I had just had a narrow escape from danger. From that moment on, I dreaded the basement corridor, for reasons I would not become conscious of until much later.


	8. Chapter VII: The Erlking

**Chapter VII: The Erlking**

The next time I went to see Erik for a lesson, I walked along the corridor more rapidly and decisively than I had before, trying to avoid spending more time there than absolutely necessary. I felt stupid for doing so, since it was not like me to be afraid without any apparent reason. Christine was the one who believed in ghosts and spirits, not me, I told myself. Having reached Erik's door, I waited a few seconds to regain my composure. I knew I didn't have to knock, because Erik always seemed to know exactly when I arrived. This time was no different.

"Meg, come in!" he called from inside, quite cheerfully. He seemed to be in a good mood, so I plucked up the courage to pose him a question as I entered.

"I hope you don't mind my asking, Monsieur, but how did you know it was me?" I said, laughing nervously.

"I have many ways of knowing", Erik said. "The walls have eyes and ears." He laughed, as if he had just come up with a great joke. Seeing that I was not quite satisfied, he continued.

"In this case, I recognized the sound of your walk", he said, smiling like a conjurer who demonstrates a trick he himself finds childishly simple. "You have a very distinctive walk."

I looked down at my leg self-consciously, knowing that I limped very slightly. That limp had not been there a year ago, and I had hoped that no one would notice it now. In fact, I was sure most people didn't. Insignificant as it was, it had nevertheless shattered my career plans, and it was something I did not want to be reminded of. Seeing that he had hit a weak spot in me, Erik apologized.

"It is quite all right", I said. "Anyway, it's impressive, given the amount of walking there has been down here lately. I am sure you have heard about the accident."

"Yes, indeed", Erik said gravely. "That was very tragic. I was not in my room that morning, but of course, I have heard about it."

He did not look at me as he spoke. It appeared he was not too keen on discussing the subject. Instead, he started talking about music theory.

"Today", Erik began in his lecturing voice, "I would like to give you some examples of the use of the Neapolitan chord. Do you remember what that is?"

"Isn't it where you have a subdominant chord in a minor key, but replace the fifth with a minor sixth, creating a major chord in the first inversion?" I answered, trying to remember what Erik had said a week earlier.

"Yes, that is true", Erik answered. "An example would be the chord sequence Eb/G-A7-Dm in the key of d minor. It was considered the height of expressiveness during the days of early Italian opera. I dare say its impact would be lost on most contemporary listeners. But composers have used it for dramatic purposes, with magnificent results. Listen to this!"

Erik sat down at the piano and started playing. He was a remarkable pianist, with a touch that was sometimes light and sensitive, sometimes heavy and forceful, but always masterfully balanced. The piece seemed slightly familiar, as if I ought to know it.

"Do you recognize it?" Erik asked, breaking off abruptly. "This is a song by Schubert called Erlkönig, after a poem by Goethe. It is about a father who rides home through the forest with his young son. During the ride, the little boy sees the Erlking, the king of the elves, who beckons the child to come with him and see his wonderful world. The boy is frightened and calls out to his father, who reassures him that all there is is the fog and the dry leaves rustling in the wind. There is no Erlking. But then the king of the elves appears again and tempts the child, speaking of his beautiful fairy daughters. Once more, the boy cries out to his father, who does not see anything out of the ordinary. Finally, the Erlking says softly to the child, 'I love you, I am entranced by your beauty', and this is where Schubert uses the Neapolitan chord in d minor, Eb, which is a bright major chord, to lull us into a false sense of security. He fools us that we are in the key of Eb major, and that the king of the elves therefore must be benevolent. Then, suddenly, the music shifts back to a cadence in the original dark key of d minor, coinciding with the moment where the Erlking shows his true colors and says, 'and if you are not willing, I will use violence!' The child shrieks that the Erlking has hurt him, and the father, at last sensing the danger, speeds home, only to discover at the end of the journey that the child lies dead in his arms. It is music theory as drama, a masterpiece!"

Erik then proceeded to play the entire piece, starting with the introduction he had played previously, and moving on to where the singer comes in. From the very first phrase he sang, his voice left me dumbfounded. He had the most beautiful, powerful voice I had ever heard! He seemed to be able to alter his timbre with perfect ease, creating the different characters of the narrator, the father, the child and the Erlking. The voice of the father was deep, calm, warm and reassuring, and the child fragile, high, vulnerable and, at the end, shrill and heartbreakingly desperate. But Erik's Erlkönig was what truly sent shivers down my spine. It was entrancing, seductive, beckoning, irresistible, a siren's voice like no other. I was drawn in by it, forgetting that I was in college, in a classroom studying music theory, and that the man in front of me was just a man. At this moment, he was the king of the elves, and I was a child waiting to become his prey.

When we came to the place Erik had just discussed, where even the chord sequence, the very fabric of the song, plays along with the Erlking's deception, I was fully absorbed in the drama. I could see Erik's eyes soften as he sang

_"Ich liebe dich, mir reizt deine schöne Gestalt"_

and then gradually turn to steel during the next, terrifying, phrase

_"Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt."_

I felt as though the room had suddenly turned cold, and noticed that I was shivering. Erik's gaze was hard, commanding, dominant, displaying a power to which all resistance was useless. He was looking straight in front of him instead of at me, and for that moment, I had the impression that he had forgotten I was sitting next to him by the piano. Just for a few seconds, he let his guard down and I saw a part of Erik I was not supposed to see. It was as frightening as it was fascinating.

Before very long, the song ended, the strange atmosphere was gone and Erik continued talking about the Neapolitan chord as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. I wasn't sure if part of what I had seen had been a product of my own imagination. The man was a genius, there was no doubt about that, but I thought I had noticed something else about him. He had in him the seed of insanity.


	9. Chapter VIII: The de Chagny Scholarship

**Chapter VIII: The de Chagny Scholarship**

One day, Christine came home from college, waving a sheet of paper in her hand enthusiastically. Mother and I were already sitting at the kitchen table, about to have dinner. It was evident that something out of the ordinary had happened to Christine in school today. She handed us the paper so we could read for ourselves. It said:

"Philippe de Chagny, senior partner of the established firm of lawyers De Chagny & Richard and well-known patron of our music college, has generously offered the school a new scholarship for singers. The winner of this scholarship will be chosen at a public concert on November 29th, in which all aspiring singers currently studying at the college may participate. A jury consisting of M. de Chagny himself and two representatives from the Paris Opéra will chose the singer who will receive a prize of 3000 euros. In addition, the winner will have the opportunity to make a concert tour in Europe and the United States in May next year, accompanied by an accomplished pianist."

Christine looked at us, her cheeks burning with excitement.

"Are you going to sign up for this contest?" I asked.

"I already did", Christine answered. "What do you think about it?"

"I think it is wonderful", Mother said encouragingly. "It will be the first time in months we hear you perform - you have not sung at any recital yet, have you?"

"I haven't felt ready for it until now", Christine confessed. "At the beginning of this term, I didn't feel like singing at all. Now, I've been working hard at it for some time and I actually feel like a few things are starting to fall into place."

"Is this Signor Piangi a good teacher, then?" Mother asked, slightly surprised since she had not heard much from Christine about him before.

Christine answered evasively.

"Not Signor Piangi, no..." she said, "but I have been practicing a lot on my own lately and it has helped."

"That is very good, dear", Mother said kindly. "Would you like some potatoes?"

After dinner, Christine pulled me into her room. She had an unusual eagerness about her, as if she couldn't wait to tell me some fantastic news. Closing the door behind us, she lowered her voice and spoke:

"Meg, can you keep a secret?"

I nodded, feeling that it must be something very important for her to conceal it even from Mother.

"When I said earlier that I had been practicing alone, I was telling the truth", Christine said, "and yet, I have had help."

"What do you mean, Christine?" I asked, confused. "I'm not following you."

Christine's eyes were radiant.

"Do you remember the day you and Little Jammes found me crying in the courtyard at school? You must have thought me mad at the time. Well, that was the first day he visited me."

"Who?" I said.

"The Angel of Music!" Christine whispered. "He came to me at last, when I was practicing in the spare room in the basement. I went down there, not really intending to sing, but only because I was upset and needed to be alone. When I had closed the door behind me, I heard a voice speak my name. The voice said that it was my angel, and that my father had sent it to me to help me sing again. At first I could hardly believe it, but it knew so much about me, things which a stranger couldn't possibly know. And it even spoke to me in Swedish! What really convinced me, though, was when the voice started to sing. You can't imagine that sound, Meg! No earthly voice could produce those notes, so clear, so perfect in every way. It was the voice of an angel! Since then, the Angel of Music has been tutoring me. He is such a wonderful teacher - he seems to know my voice better than I do myself. Every little difficulty I have, he tells me exactly how to work my way around. We sometimes sing duets. Musically, he inspires me in a way that nobody else has, not since... not since Father died. Do you understand, Meg? I have been visited by an angel!"

Christine took me by the arm. There were tears of happiness in her eyes, and she did look like one who has glimpsed into heaven. I didn't know what to say to her, but a million thoughts were racing through my head. Had Christine gone mad? She had seemed normal enough at dinner. If she had really heard a bodiless voice, to whom did it belong? Why had it made itself known to Christine? What was its purpose? As to the identity of the voice, I had my suspicions, even though I said nothing to Christine about them. If she needed to believe in the Angel of Music, I didn't want to shatter the illusion, as I remembered only too well the state she had been in before the angel's arrival. Besides, I had no evidence. Still, I couldn't help but wonder what Erik, if it was indeed him, wanted with Christine. I decided to find out as much as I could.

"What is your Angel of Music like?" I asked.

"He is patient", Christine said. "We can work for hours on end, and he never gives up. But of course, there is no such thing as time for an angel. He tells me I have a special talent, and that I will be a great success someday, if only I stay devoted to my art. That way, he is very strict. He believes it takes a great deal of discipline in order to make progress. The Angel of Music also keeps telling me I need to take care of myself. No skipping meals, no drinking, no partying late at night."

"No boys?" I joked.

"He never said that", Christine protested. "He already knows I'm not interested in those things. I want to focus on my singing, nothing else. It's not exactly like I'm being followed around by young men, anyway. At least..."

Christine hesitated. I looked at her inquiringly. She continued:

"This lawyer, Philippe de Chagny, has a son. His name is Raoul. I met him years ago, when we were children, because his family used to spend a few weeks every summer in Sweden. He was always very fond of me, and I liked him, too. We used to have such fun!"

"Maybe he'll be at the concert", I said. "His father donates the money for the scholarship, after all. You could introduce yourself to him then. If he had a soft spot for you when you were children, he will surely remember you now!"

"I'm a bit nervous about it, though", Christine confessed. "I wouldn't want to intrude. I already saw him once at the college, but I didn't dare to say hello."

"Why?"

"If he hadn't recognized me, I would have felt so stupid. I don't want him to think I'm pursuing him because his family is rich, I'm sure he gets enough of that as it is!"

I smiled. Christine had always been a little shy. But I knew her well enough to see that beyond her shyness, she was looking forward to the prospect of meeting Raoul de Chagny again.


	10. Chapter IX: Christine Sings

**Chapter IX: Christine Sings**

It was November 29th. A few weeks had passed since Christine's surprising announcement that she would be singing in the scholarship concert, and Mother and I were both very excited to hear her singing again. We were sitting in the auditorium, waiting for the concert to start. Next to us were Little Jammes and her elder sister, whom nobody ever referred to as Big Jammes, only by her Christian name, Louise. We passed the program leaflet between us, as there had been a shortage of them. Apparently there were eight contestants, all of them students at the college. There were two basses, one baritone, one tenor, two mezzo-sopranos and, finally, two sopranos - Carlotta Piangi and Christine Daae. I asked Little Jammes about a few of the other singers.

"Pauline, one of the mezzos, is quite good", Little Jammes said. "She has a great sense of humor, too. She's a friend of Louise's."

"Marcel, the baritone, is not bad either", added Louise Jammes.

"What do you think about Carlotta?" I asked.

"She's probably the most technically skilled singer of them all", Louise said, "and she knows it!"

"I've only heard her once", I admitted, "but I didn't like her. Her singing seemed so... I don't know, clinical."

"I know what you mean!" exclaimed Little Jammes. "One thinks one should be impressed with her because everyone is, but there's just something annoying about her. What about your cousin, what's she like?"

"Christine?" I said. "I haven't heard her sing in months - she has been having problems with her voice ever since her father died. At one point she almost gave up singing entirely. But now, things appear to be going better."

"I hope she does well", Little Jammes said. "She seems such a kind person, she deserves it!"

My mother turned and hushed at us. The concert was about to start.

We listened in silence to the first few performances. None of them were bad, of course, but there was nothing significant about any of them. Afterwards, I wouldn't have been able to remember which arias they sang without looking it up in the program notes. The first singer to make an impression was Marcel, the baritone. He had a pleasant, warm timbre and made quite an impression with his Figaro in the famous aria "Se vuol ballare" by Mozart. Next came the mezzo-soprano named Pauline, who sang the Habanera from Bizet's Carmen with a great deal of theatricality, flirting with the accompanist so enthusiastically that his music sheets fell to the floor and had to be retrieved by the page turner. This brought on laughter and a great deal of applause from the audience.

"That was the best so far!" chuckled Little Jammes, who was not used to staying quiet for any long period of time.

After a few more forgettable performances, there were only two singers left: Carlotta and Christine. I thought it a little unfair that they had put Christine immediately after Carlotta in the program, given Carlotta's status as the star of the singing class. In addition, Carlotta would be performing the Queen of the Night's aria from the second act of The Magic Flute, a piece she had probably chosen only to show off her high f.

"Wouldn't it be funny if she began to sing and it turned out she sounded like Florence Foster Jenkins?" Little Jammes mused.

I laughed. We had just found an old recording with the tone-deaf singer Little Jammes was referring to. It was the most atrocious thing I had ever heard, but remarkably funny. The idea of Carlotta sounding like that, and the shock it would give everyone, was priceless. Mother looked at me disapprovingly when I couldn't stop giggling. Little Jammes had a true talent for making me laugh at inappropriate times.

Carlotta started singing:

_"Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen..."_

Sadly, she sounded just like her usual self. The high staccato notes were all there, which in itself was an impressive accomplishment, but she was just a little too smug about it. There was nothing of the Queen's diabolical rage, only Carlotta smiling triumphantly as she hit one high f after another. And it must be said, that even though she sang the coloraturas well enough, her voice seemed a bit strained in the sections between them, possibly due to the added difficulty of having to produce text as well as notes. Nevertheless, her performance was very well received by the audience and it seemed like the contest had an obvious winner. I am sure Christine's performance was, in most people's minds, a mere formality at this point.

That is, until she started singing.

Christine entered the stage, softly and without a sound. She stood for a minute letting her eyes wander across the auditorium, as if she were up in the mountains, taking in a splendid view. There was a slight smile on her lips. She nodded to the accompanist, and the first few measures of Gilda's aria "Caro nome" from Verdi's Rigoletto sounded. And then she sang!

I had heard Christine singing in the past, before Martin Daae's death, and her voice had been incredible then. Now, she seemed to have rediscovered all that had been lost to her during so many months. Everything that had once made her voice remarkable had returned: the unusually beautiful timbre, the crystal clear high notes and the warm, balanced middle range, the impeccable phrasing, the full and effortless forte and the breathtakingly soft piano - it was all there, and it didn't even seem difficult to her. Singing was as natural to her as talking, or even more so.

_"Caro nome che il mio cor_

_festi primo palpitar..."_

It was an aria sung by a young girl who falls in love for the first time, and Christine performed it very convincingly. Her eyes glowed as she sang about her love, and there was even a blush on her cheeks. She made the most wonderful cadenzas and coloraturas, probably in reality very difficult to sing well, but seemingly simple, as if they were only the natural consequences of Gilda's feelings. Her technique was perfect, but she didn't flaunt it like Carlotta. Instead, she just let the music speak for itself. This was not a student singing, it was a performance worthy of any large opera house in the country.

When Christine had finished the aria, there was a moment of stunned silence. It was more than a moment - nearly half a minute passed before the first person rose to his feet and clapped his hands wildly. The rest of the audience followed, and soon the sound of applause was deafening. Christine merely smiled, her gaze distant and dreaming, and took a bow. She then left the stage and didn't come back even though the audience were cheering loudly for her.

The jury didn't take long to reach a conclusion. Entering the stage, Philippe de Chagny announced that the winner of the scholarship was "that extraordinary new talent, Christine Daae". Christine came back on stage to receive a bouquet of flowers and a check for 3000 euros. She looked dazed and overwhelmed, and nearly tripped on her dress as she bowed a second time. I was on my feet, cheering and clapping my hands, and so were Mother and the Jammes sisters.

"I've never heard her sing like that before!" Mother said to me, struggling to make herself heard over the roar of applause. "What a development! I always knew she had a gift, but this... If only her dear father were here to see this!"

I nodded, thinking to myself that in Christine's mind, he probably was.

After the concert had ended I went to search for Christine in order to congratulate her. It turned out I was not the only one - a whole crowd had gathered outside the concert hall around her. I half expected them to ask her for an autograph.

When I came close enough, I could see that she was talking to a blonde young man who looked vaguely familiar. It took a few moments before I remembered where I had seen him before, but when I did, it was easy enough to figure out who he must be. It was without doubt Raoul de Chagny, who had been at the college on the day of our arrival, and whom Christine had been looking at in the cafeteria. His blue eyes and fragile face were now full of emotion, and I could hear him speaking:

"Christine! Of course I remember you! Those summers in Sweden... how could I forget?"

"Raoul!" Christine said, smiling. "How tall you have become! The last time we met, we were almost the same height. Otherwise, you haven't changed much."

"But you!" Raoul exclaimed. "You have become quite a star! I had no idea you could sing like that. I only knew you were a voice major... I saw you here a few months ago, you know, when I accompanied my father to discuss this scholarship with the management of the college. I don't think you saw me, though."

Christine blushed.

"I did", she said. "I just didn't want to disturb you, in case you..."

"Disturb?" Raoul laughed. "Oh well, we've finally met now, anyway. And I insist you must come to dinner with me, to celebrate your triumph tonight!"

Christine's smile faded.

"I can't", she said with regret in her voice. "I have a lesson."

"A lesson? Now?"

Raoul looked taken aback, but Christine was obviously serious. He sighed and said that he would see her again soon, and took his leave. I could finally go to Christine and congratulate her.

After I had spoken to Christine, I lingered for a while outside the concert hall, waiting to see where she was going. There was only one person I could think of who would give lessons at this hour.


	11. Chapter X: The Angel of Music

**Chapter X: The Angel of Music**

After the crowd around Christine had dispersed, she threw a quick glance in every direction to make sure that nobody saw her. I had hidden behind a corner so I would be able to watch her without her knowing it, determined as I was to finally learn the truth about her mysterious "angel".

Christine moved rapidly and decisively towards the stairs leading down to the basement. I followed her quietly at a safe distance. I saw her descending the stairs and walking along that dark and gloomy corridor until she reached her practice room. She opened the door with the key I had been instructed to give her, and went inside. The door closed behind her and I went up to it, cautiously leaning towards it to pick up any sound from the room. Before very long, I heard Christine's voice:

"Angel?" she said, her voice that of an obedient child. "I have come, as you requested."

At first, nothing happened. I thought that there might have been some misunderstanding and there would be no lesson, or maybe Christine was really delusional and hearing voices nobody else could hear.

"Angel?" Christine pleaded again.

A few seconds of silence, then a voice replied:

"You did well tonight, my child!"

The voice was resonating powerfully from inside the room. It was undoubtedly Erik's voice, even though there was a tone in it now I had never heard him use during our lessons, except for that one time when he sang the Schubert piece.

"Your singing soared all the way up to the angels in Heaven", Erik continued. "But we have a lot of work to do yet, if you are to triumph!"

"I will do anything!" Christine exclaimed, almost extatically.

"I am glad to hear it", said Erik. "Such devotion is necessary for a true artist. In order to create great music, great effort is required, and sometimes, even, great sacrifices. Nothing must disturb your dedication to music!"

"Nothing does, I promise!" Christine said. "Learning to sing is the only thing that matters to me, the only goal I have! It is what keeps me alive."

"I hope you are telling the truth, my child", Erik's voice continued, "for only those who are fully dedicated can hear the Angel of Music!"

There was a slight coldness in his voice now, and this didn't pass unnoticed by Christine.

"Angel, I would never lie to you!" she protested, and I could tell by her voice that she was near tears.

"What of the young man with whom you spoke tonight?" inquired Erik. "Does he not distract you from your art?"

"No!" Christine said. "He is just an old childhood friend who came to congratulate me. I have already told you I have no interest in dating."

Erik seemed satisfied by this reply. He said:

"That is good, because a great deal of practice lies ahead of you. But not tonight. Tonight, you should feel proud of yourself for what you have achieved. Go home and rest, you must be very tired!"

"I would very much like to hear just one song", Christine pleaded, like a child asking for a bedtime story.

Erik didn't answer her, but instead started singing. Again, I was amazed at how extraordinary a singing voice he had. It was even more entrancing now than when I had heard him sing during our lesson, and I could easily imagine that if there were angels, this would be what they sounded like. It was no wonder that Christine, with her vivid imagination and belief in the supernatural, had mistaken him for a celestial being. The only thing I couldn't understand was where Erik was hiding. It was clear from the sound that he was inside Christine's room, but she could obviously not see him, or she would have known him to be human. There must be some kind of secret space inside the room, I guessed.

The sounds Erik produced were not like anything I had ever heard. I suspected this was one of his own compositions, but it was not frightening or full of despair like the piano piece I had overheard him working on a few months earlier, but rather soft, alluring and full of restrained passion. It was seductive, to the point of almost being physically arousing. I had the feeling that I was eavesdropping on something very intimate, something that was meant only for Christine. And at that moment I understood exactly why Erik had transformed himself into her Angel of Music. There was no mistaking the expression of love in his voice.

I was completely confused by this sudden realization. It was the only explanation that made sense, and still it left so many questions unanswered. When had it all begun? Had Erik been planning this ever since he gave me that key to deliver to Christine? How did he even know who she was, and what her secret dreams were? Then it came to me: he knew because I had told him. I had made it possible for him to impersonate Christine's angel.

Or had I? I though about the possibility for a while, and remembered that Christine and I had talked about her father and the Angel of Music on the day she auditioned for music college. Suppose Erik had been there? If so, maybe that was the real reason why he had chosen to have me as a student - so I could provide him with information about Christine! No, it couldn't be... I told myself I was getting carried away by all these far-fetched theories. After all, if he wanted to be close to Christine, why didn't he just approach her in person?

The music had stopped. There was a sound of someone moving inside the room, and then I heard steps approaching the door. I hurried to the end of the dark corridor, hoping that nobody would notice me. A moment later, the door opened and Christine appeared. She turned around, closed the door behind her and moved towards the staircase. When she was gone, I stood for a moment in silence, trying to process what I had just witnessed. My thoughts were interrupted by a soft click. I looked up - the door of the practice room was ajar. Had Christine not locked it properly? An irresistible curiosity came over me. My knees trembling, I approached the door, slowly and cautiously.

To my surprise, the room was empty. A few bookshelves, some large cardboard boxes filled with files, a piano, a chair, a music stand and an old sofa, that was all. There was nowhere a tall person like Erik could possibly hide. I looked around, trying to see if there was another way out of the room, but the walls seemed solid. Impossible! Only a few minutes ago, I had heard Erik singing in this room. Where was he now? And did he know I was here?

"Hello?" I said awkwardly.

No answer. Feeling rather stupid, I bent down to examine the floor. A quick glance didn't reveal anything. I felt the cool linoleum with my fingers, and discovered nothing. It seemed a perfectly ordinary floor. Finally, I tried sticking my hand underneath the sofa. There, suddenly, I felt a small crack. I traced it with my fingertips and found it formed a rather large square. A trapdoor!

My heart pounding with excitement, I leaned against the sofa for a while. I debated with myself whether to leave now or continue exploring the trapdoor to find out where it went. Reason and intuition told me I should probably go, but something else in me held me back. Before I could make up my mind, I was startled by a soft sound. It was Erik - he had started singing again, no, not singing, humming. What sounded like a lullaby now filled the room. I tried calling out to him, but he just went on humming. His voice made it hard for me to concentrate. I temporarily forgot about the trapdoor and let my mind be filled with this beautiful, reassuring tune. Surely, I could lie down on the sofa for a while and just listen to this music? It must be late by now, and I hadn't realized before how sleepy I was. Perhaps a short nap wouldn't hurt.

Half asleep already, I lay down on the sofa. Immediately, I felt a sharp pain in my cheek and I sat up with a cry, at once wide awake again. Something had pricked me. Looking down to see what it was, I discovered an earring which had been lying where I had tried to rest my head. I picked it up, and had little difficulty recognizing it. It was an unusual earring in the shape of a horse shoe. On the first day of the semester, I had seen Mme Martin, the institution secretary, wearing a pair just like it. Now she was dead. And it was here, in this corridor, that she had had her fatal accident...

A wave of terror came over me. In my mind, I could picture exactly what might have happened that morning, because the same thing was happening to me now. Mme Martin had entered the room, this room, not the one where she was later found, looking for some papers in the bookshelf. She had lost her earring in the process. Bending down to search for it, she had by a mere chance discovered the trapdoor, which was not on any official map of the college. Maybe she had even managed to open it before she heard the lullaby. Then, hypnotized by Erik's singing, she had fallen asleep and that had sealed her fate.

I rose instantly and hurried for the door, but it was too late. Before I could reach it, Erik's tall, dark figure was standing in front of me, mercilessly blocking my one escape route.


	12. Chapter XI: About Selling Your Soul

**Chapter XI: About Selling Your Soul**

It is easy to imagine, when reading a piece of fiction or watching an action movie, what we would do if we were in the hero's shoes. But when faced with real-life danger, chances are we are not so composed. As for me, when I saw Erik standing between me and the door, a silent menace in his eyes, I panicked. I felt my heart beating violently and a tingling sensation spread from my fingertips throughout my entire body. In an instant, I went ice cold and moist with sweat, my chest tightened so that I could hardly breathe, and my legs couldn't carry me any longer. As I sank down on the floor, I was convinced I was going to die.

"Please..." I moaned as I gasped for air. The room had started spinning around me.

Erik said nothing. I tried to speak again.

"I won't tell, Erik, I promise..."

Erik looked at me without moving. He seemed to be considering what to do with me. If he wanted to, he could easily kill me with his bare hands, there was no doubt about that. I was left wondering for a while just how far he was ready to go in his insanity.

"Let me be wrong about him", I thought over and over, like a mantra. "Let me be wrong about Mme Martin."

I don't know how long I was sitting on the floor, but eventually my pulse calmed down and I was able to breathe normally. It was only then that I came to think of it: Erik had, in fact, not hurt me yet. I began to feel slightly hopeful. This could only mean that he had the intention of talking to me.

"What do you want?" I asked, my voice still shaking.

"Nothing", said Erik simply. "I want you to do nothing, say nothing. Just keep up that admirable discretion which you have displayed so far. And stay away from Christine's practice room, it is not safe to go there alone."

I opened my hand and showed him the earring. Even though I was terrified of the answer, I had to ask.

"What about this?" I said. "It belonged to the institution secretary."

"Ah yes, the poor Mme Martin", Erik mused. "That was an accident."

"How?"

"She accidentally found the trapdoor", he said innocently.

I had an unsettling feeling that Erik's definition of "accident" was radically different from most people's.

"If I had fallen asleep just now, would... would you..." I stammered, "would you have done something similar to me, too?"

"I might have", said Erik casually. "But I would have been reluctant to do so. You see, I have a certain degree of sympathy for you, Meg Giry. You are an essentially good person, and you have been helpful to me in the past, even though you would not have realized it at the time. And you are making progress at music theory, that is another good reason not to kill you, isn't it? It would be most un-pedagogical of me to sabotage your efforts in such a crude way. Mlle Popeau would not approve."

Erik was quite insane. I knew that now. He was also strangely humorous in a very morbid way, and I think it was this trait in him that made me feel a little more relaxed, so that I dared try to challenge him.

"If you spare me now and let me go", I said, trying to make my question sound like a joke, "what's going to stop me from going to the police, or telling Christine the truth about you?"

"Only your intelligence and sense of self-preservation", Erik replied with what was most likely a smile.

"And if I keep quiet and don't go near the practice room or the trapdoor again?" I asked.

"You will be safe", Erik said. "More than that, your loyalty will be rewarded. You will find I am not such an unfriendly fellow after all. I am, in fact, a very peaceful man if I am not disturbed."

"What about Christine?"

"I would never hurt her", answered Erik emphatically.

Once again, I was struck with the thought that Erik was deeply in love with my cousin. But she didn't even know that he existed in the flesh - to her he was only the bodiless voice of the Angel of Music. What was the reason behind this charade?

Could it be that this forceful man, this brilliant composer and virtuoso pianist and singer, was too shy to approach a woman in person? It seemed unlikely, but I had heard about people who were so disabled by social phobia that they couldn't even leave their homes. A similar explanation could account for the fact that Erik was always wearing a mask. I had never seen him without it and had never asked him about it, knowing that he would not want me to. He seemed to be so used to it, as if he had always worn it, and if so, he must be a very troubled person, I thought. A person I had serious doubts about letting my cousin be taken in by. Erik, seeing my hesitation, continued:

"My only goal is to give Christine a chance to become a great singer. I see remarkable potential in her, and I want her to achieve the success and recognition that I myself never got. If the only way to achieve that is by letting her believe she is tutored by an angel sent to her by her father, so be it. She will learn the truth when she is ready. But Meg, you have seen for yourself the change in her. She is radiant, she has hope! Can you deprive her of that?"

Erik spoke convincingly, and even though I was not sure whether he was completely honest about his intentions, I had to agree with the points he had made. Christine had made extraordinary progress under Erik's guidance, and in her current fragile state of mind I was afraid of what she might do if she were to find out that there was no Angel of Music. Besides, knowing what Erik was capable of, I feared for my own safety if I should interfere with his plans. I guess these were my excuses for making a decision which would later have catastrophic consequences.

"I will keep your secret", I said to Erik.

As I finally was allowed to leave that dreadful room, I had the uneasy feeling of one who has just made a deal with the devil.


	13. Chapter XII: The Christmas Party

**Chapter XII: The Christmas Party**

I was very shaken by my confrontation with Erik, so much so that I dared not approach his room during the weeks that followed. To my relief, Christine seemed quite all right and unaware of her Angel's dark sides. With her unexpected triumph, she had become the center of attention at the college overnight. Many people approached her to comment on her outstanding achievement, and she thanked them modestly but rather awkwardly, as one who is not used to that much praise. If anyone asked her how she had learnt to sing so remarkably well, she answered evasively that some things had simply fallen into place lately and that she was happy about that.

Only Carlotta Piangi and her father were not pleased with this recent turn of events. They had both, undoubtedly, counted on Carlotta winning the scholarship. As it was, the smug coloratura soprano's pride had been badly injured, and as a result, her attitude towards Christine changed from disdainful indifference to outright hostility. She had seen Christine talking with Raoul de Chagny, and quickly spread a rumor (for I am quite sure it originated from her) that the two were lovers and that Raoul had influenced his father to give the scholarship to his girlfriend. To anyone who knew Christine well, this was ridiculous, but some of the students who were friends with Carlotta seemed to believe it and treated Christine accordingly. Signor Piangi, too, made a point of criticizing Christine especially harshly on her last lessons before Christmas, but she took it rather well, probably because she now had another teacher whose judgment she valued more. Nevertheless, she confided in me that she would be glad once the semester was over.

The last evening before the holidays, a big Christmas party was held at the college. It was quite an ambitious event which included both students and teachers, and it was to start with a fine dinner and end with dancing to a live brass band. Christine and I both came rather early and watched as the other guests arrived.

First, I spotted my voice teacher, Mme Dubois, who was accompanied by M. Reyer, the choirmaster. He seemed rather more cheerful than usual and I suspected that his company had something to do with that. Then came the Jammes sisters.

"Meg, Christine!" Little Jammes exclaimed happily. "Christmas break at last, eh?"

"Oh, yes!" I said. "I really need a few weeks away from this place."

And from Erik, I thought. But I didn't say it.

"Have you had enough of the infamous assignments of Mlle Popeau?" Louise Jammes said, winking at her sister, who had probably told her all about our classes in pedagogy.

"More than enough!" I said. "I wish..."

In the corner of my eye, I could see Mlle Popeau entering from outside. Luckily, i managed to stop myself in time. It seemed like everyone at the college was here tonight!

"What are you going to do this Christmas?" Louise asked, turning to Christine, who had said nothing so far.

"I don't know", she answered. "I might practice some singing, there are some things I would like to work on..."

"Trying to give us all a bad conscience for taking some time off, are you?" Little Jammes joked. "Remember, all work and no play..."

"I'm sorry", Christine said. "I didn't mean... Of course, I will be doing other things as well..."

Christine seemed quite uncomfortable. I had the impression she didn't want to appear too ambitious or too eager to succeed. She had always been very humble by nature, and sometimes admitted to feeling a little guilty for stepping into the spotlight.

My thoughts were interrupted by an exclamation.

"It's Raoul de Chagny!" Louise said. "Philippe de Chagny's son. Christine, isn't he your..."

"Certainly not!" Christine said indignantly, but there was a slight blush on her cheeks. She turned away abruptly, but Raoul had already seen her.

"Christine!" he said. "I am so glad to see you again - I have been trying to get hold of you for weeks. Didn't you get my text messages?"

"I didn't know how to reply", Christine answered. "I was very busy and had a lot on my mind."

"I'm sorry", Raoul said, sounding a little hurt. "I didn't mean to intrude, it was just that when we talked earlier I got the impression you were happy to meet me, so I thought..."

"I was", Christine said. "It's just that my music must come first. Surely, you understand that?"

"Well", Raoul said, "tonight at least you don't have a lesson, so we can celebrate at last. See, they are starting to let everybody in to the dining room now. Let's go!"

The "dining room" was, in fact, one of the largest classrooms, which was sometimes used for seminars and concerts. This evening, it had been furnished with several long tables with room for more than two hundred guests. A lavish buffet with numerous dishes had been prepared, and we all helped ourselves to the food, taking a good deal more than we could actually eat simply because it looked so delicious. Then I sat down at one of the tables with Raoul, Christine and the Jammes sisters. We were soon joined by Pauline, one of the singers who had also hoped to win the de Chagny scholarship, but who was decent enough not to bear a grudge against Christine.

"Quite good food, this", she said with her mouth half full. "I fear the entertainment will be worse, though!"

She pointed with her fork at M. Ivanovich, my piano professor who, after more than three months, still had great difficulty remembering my name - he tended to call me Peggy when he was tired. He had now risen from his seat and was evidently preparing to make a long and tedious speech.

"Dear friends", he said with his strong Russian accent, "I have worked here for a very long time, probably since before many of you were born. The college has changed a lot in the past twenty years, for example, who could forget our former headmaster, the great M. ... (here followed a pause which was a little too long to be intentional) Lefèvre?"

Louise Jammes sighed.

"Here we go again", she whispered to Pauline.

It was obvious that anyone not new to the college had already heard this speech at least once before. M. Ivanovich went on to reminisce about the old days, telling several pointless stories from the past, sometimes consulting his notes, which he had great difficulty reading, even with his strong glasses.

"As soon as I have finished dessert, I'm off to the percussion room", said Pauline under her breath to the Jammes sisters.

They nodded in agreement. When I looked at them inquiringly, Pauline explained to me that it was something of a tradition for the percussionists to have their own secret Christmas party the same evening as the official one. It was, as she put it, where all the action was. Only a select few knew that the party existed, and Pauline had been invited because she was on "very friendly terms" with one of the percussion students.

After we had had dessert, Pauline excused herself and went out of the room, throwing a meaningful glance at us. A few minutes later, Louise and Little Jammes rose and followed her. I prepared to go with them, but Christine decided to stay behind with Raoul. As I left the room, I could hear them talking:

"Do you remember how we used to go story-hunting in Sweden when we were children?" Raoul said. "We asked everyone in the neighborhood to tell us their best story and then you wrote them down in a book."

"I had to translate them for you as well," Christine laughed, "because you didn't know any Swedish and some of the old people didn't even speak English, let alone French!"

"Do you still have the book?"

"Of course!" Christine said. "I love those old stories. You know, I sometimes wonder if there isn't more truth to them than one might believe. At least, lately I've been thinking that everything is possible..."

I couldn't hear the rest of the conversation, in fact, it hadn't been my intention to listen to it at all. It was just that I had to retrieve my handbag which had slipped to the floor, and since it was fairly dark in the room, and even more so under the dining table, this took a while. When I finally came out into the corridor, Pauline and the Jammes sisters had already started walking, thinking that I had changed my mind about going to the percussion party. I hurried to catch up with them and we made our way to that secluded spot on the second floor which was the percussionists' domain.

What Pauline had said was true. This was indeed a much more entertaining party, and a much more cheerful crowd. I could see that there were a lot of half empty wine bottles on the tables, which might account for some, but not all, of the Christmas spirit we could sense as we entered. The room was rather small and full of music instruments: vibraphones, drums, timpani, a second rate grand piano which was now being used as a buffet table. Everyone in the percussion class had helped bring some food and drink, and they had obviously just finished eating when we arrived. We were greeted warmly by the percussionists as soon as we had been introduced as friends of Pauline and were offered seats by their table as the entertainment began.

It was very amusing, and very well done. The percussion students performed Christmas songs with newly created lyrics, most of which were either dirty or politically incorrect. Still, they sang and played very well and had made quite elaborate musical arrangements, even though no music theory professor would ever give them credit for that. The performers received thunderous applause.

After that, it was declared that we would dance around the Christmas tree. The tree in question was a large cactus, which in honor of the occasion had been tastefully decorated. We danced around it quite wildly for a while, until somebody accidentally knocked it over and then we danced on top of the Christmas tree instead. I have rarely laughed so much in my life, and when I finally left the percussion room I was soaked with sweat and it was past midnight.

As I went down the stairs to join the official Christmas party guests, who had now also started dancing, but in a more civilized manner, I came to think of Christine. She had suggested earlier in the evening that we share a taxi home, and we had agreed to leave the college at midnight, since Christine didn't want to stay up too late. I was sure that she was waiting for me, wondering what took me so long, and I felt a little guilty.

But even though I looked everywhere, I couldn't find her. At last I spotted Raoul, who was sitting in a corner, looking concerned.

"Hi Raoul, have you seen Christine?" I asked.

Raoul started.

"Oh, it's you, Meg", he said, foolishly. "No, she went to buy some mineral water an hour ago and she hasn't returned. I don't know where she's gone - I was hoping to dance with her."

"She has turned off her cell phone", I said, after having tried to call her. "Maybe she was tired and went home to bed."

Raoul said nothing, but I could see in his eyes that he was worried Christine might have gone home with someone else. I, too, was worried, but for a different reason. It had occurred to me that I hadn't seen Erik anywhere at the party, and I had been enjoying myself so much these past few hours that I had forgotten about him completely. Now, I needed to find out if he played a part in Christine's sudden disappearance. I sincerely hoped not. I hoped that she was still at the party, somewhere I hadn't looked, or better yet, at home. In all likelihood, I was overreacting to something which probably had a very simple and harmless explanation.

Excusing myself, I left Raoul and descended to the basement corridor. It was empty and there was no sign of anyone having been there this evening. At least that was a relief! I searched for a while, but since I was unable to find Christine anywhere at the college, I finally decided to go home to see if she was there. All I had to do was get my coat, which was in my locker.

When I approached the locker, I saw the note. It was a small white sealed envelope attached to the door of my locker with some tape. I tore it open and found, to my surprise, that it contained a sonnet, written in red ink:

_"Dear Meg, you need not fret about Christine.  
She is with me, her tutor, and concerning  
her education, now at last she's learning  
to raise her voice to heights as yet unseen._

_Invent an answer as to where she's been,  
where she is now, and when she'll be returning!  
Don't speak of me, for if my ears are burning,  
I'll have to act (if you know what I mean)._

_If curiosity has lost its charm,  
a girl who knows discretion to be wise  
will find there is no reason for alarm._

_Christine will reappear before your eyes,  
for she is safe and will not come to harm.  
Believe me, for an Angel never lies."_


	14. Chapter XIII: The Art of Lying

**Chapter XIII: The Art of Lying**

I was very shaken by Erik's note. Even though the idea to write in verse form was probably a display of some twisted sense of humor on his part, there was no mistaking the menacing implications between the lines. I had to become Erik's accomplice, stay out of his way and help him conceal his actions, or else... Knowing him, I felt sure that it was no empty threat.

Should I have confided in anyone, or gone to the police? Of course I should, it's what any reasonable person would have done. But I didn't. The primitive instinct of fear is always much stronger than any logic or reason, and at this point, I was afraid for my life. Erik had already spared me once, but he had made perfectly clear that if I annoyed him again, he would not be so sentimental a second time. As I stood by my locker with that innocent-looking sheet of paper in my hands, I weighed my options. If I went to the police, would they be likely to take me seriously? I doubted it, after all, the story sounded fantastic and I didn't have much proof to back it up. Would they be able to keep me safe from Erik? Again, I wasn't sure. He was no ordinary man - he had the ability to get inside people's heads with his voice and control them like puppets if he liked, or so I believed. I had a feeling that he was omnipresent, there was no escaping from him, no matter where I went and how hard I tried. If I told anybody else about the note, I might put them in danger as well, so that was out of the question.

Finally, there was another thing, something which went beyond both reason and fear, and which I am almost ashamed to admit. Erik had taken me into his confidence. He had trusted me, and only me, with information as to what had happened to Christine. I knew Erik to be a very private person, who kept himself to himself and guarded his secrets carefully. Yet, he had found me reliable enough to share this information with. I felt flattered, even proud in a way, to have been chosen like this. How could I betray him?

I am not comfortable with telling lies, partially because I am very bad at it. On the way home from the Christmas party, I made up a story to explain Christine's sudden disappearance to my mother and anyone else who might ask. Then, I rehearsed it carefully, trying out the casual tone of voice I would use when saying:

"Christine isn't here, she went away over the holidays with a friend from school. No, I don't know exactly when they will be back, but she promised to call and keep me updated."

Luckily, Mother was already asleep when I came home, so I didn't have to face her until the next day, when I had calmed down a little. I gave her the explanation I had made up and she seemed surprised and a little angry, but not worried. She probably guessed that Christine had gone off with some boy and asked me to cover for her, because I could hear her murmur to herself:

"Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. I do hope they use protection, though."

Christmas was very calm and peaceful. Mother and I spent Christmas Eve and the following few days with my old grandmother in Lyon, who was happy to see us, as she had been very lonely since my grandfather's death many years ago. She was disappointed that Christine hadn't come with us, but accepted my story without question.

A couple of days before New Year's Eve, we returned home. I had just finished unpacking my bags when the doorbell rang. When I opened the door, I was very surprised to see Raoul de Chagny standing there. He asked me if Christine was in, as she hadn't returned his calls, and I gave him the explanation I was by now getting rather used to delivering.

"Christine is spending the holidays with a friend. She sent me a message, it was decided on the spur of the moment, apparently", I lied.

Raoul looked taken aback and rather suspicious. I felt sorry for him and offered him to come inside and have some tea, as it was a cold day and Mother was out shopping for the moment, so we would have the apartment to ourselves for a while.

"So, where did she go?" asked Raoul casually when he had sat down at our kitchen table and I had given him a cup of hot mint tea and some cookies I had brought back from my grandmother's. "Is she coming back soon?"

"She is in the country over Christmas and New Year", I said, weighing my words carefully. "After all that she has been through this past year, she wanted to have some peace and quiet, and a friend of hers from school has a family home in a small village near the German border."

Raoul looked even more concerned than before. It what obvious what question he would have asked, if his manners had not prevented him. I answered it for him, to put him out of his misery.

"It is not a boyfriend", I said.

Raoul gave a sigh of relief, but then shrugged and said:

"Why should I want to know that? It is Christine's own business what she does."

I smiled. He was so transparent, like a child.

"But you do care, don't you?" I asked. "Christine has told me you were childhood friends."

"What has she said about me?" Raoul said, suddenly very interested.

"That you were fond of her. She is fond of you, too."

Raoul leaned forward in his chair.

"Did she say so?"

"I know my cousin well enough to tell when she likes someone."

"She is a remarkable girl, isn't she?" Raoul mused.

"Yes", I agreed. "She is also going through a lot right now, after her father's death. Of course, you must have known him?"

Raoul nodded thoughtfully.

"I knew Martin Daae when I was a child. He was always very kind to me, used to joke and call me 'Christine's little fiancé'. My family owns a house in Sweden, by a large lake, and Christine and her father used to rent a cottage nearby, a few weeks every summer. They were the only French-speaking people in the neighborhood, and I remember being so impressed that Christine knew my language when I didn't know hers. But I guess it's only natural, since her mother was from here."

"Yes, Christine has visited us a lot. Martin was always very eager that she should know her French family well, especially since she was so young when her mother died."

"He always looked after Christine, didn't he?" Raoul continued. "I had the impression they were very close, much closer than I have ever been to my father. Martin used to play the violin for us and make up stories, which Christine always believed to be absolutely true. During those long summer evenings, before dark, Christine and I used to run to the lake hoping to see the fairies dancing on the surface of the water."

"I'm sure Christine saw them!" I laughed.

"Of course!" Raoul smiled as well. "I never did, but it didn't bother me. I was happy just to be with her. The lake was so beautiful at night, when the sky was a very pale blue and the water completely black and still and warm after a hot day. Sometimes, we would throw our clothes off and jump in, and then quickly run back home, laughing, dripping wet and chased by mosquitoes. It was a wonderful time!"

Raoul's eyes shone. I could tell that he had never forgotten about the little girl he had been smitten by as a boy. Even now, he spoke of Christine with incredible warmth and affection. It took all the strength I had not to blurt out the truth to him. He deserved to know and Christine was certainly in need of such a friend. But I had already made up my mind to keep the secret, and I only hoped that everything would turn out for the best eventually.

A key turned in the lock. Mother was home. Rising from the table, Raoul thanked me for the tea and put on his coat. As he left, he made me promise to let Christine know he had asked for her. I tried to avoid eye contact with him so he wouldn't see that in reality, I had no way of communicating with her until Erik decided to bring her back. And when would that be? I knew the college would be closed until after the Christmas break, so presumably there was only a very small chance of seeing Christine before then. All I could do was hope for the best and wait for school to start.


	15. Chapter XIV: The Unmasking

**Chapter XIV: The Unmasking**

On the first day back in college after the Christmas holidays, I arrived very early in the morning, determined not to waste a moment in trying to find Erik. I descended the stairs to the basement corridor as fast as I could, hurried to the door of his room and knocked on it loudly. I even called out his name and Christine's, but there was no answer. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I started thinking that I might have been wrong in trusting Erik, and that something terrible had happened which I could have prevented if I had only acted sooner. I had already waited for the duration of the Christmas break, but now, when I was back in school and Christine was still nowhere to be found, I had a sudden feeling of urgency. I could not lie any longer. If she did not return today, I would have no choice but to go to the police and report her missing. It had gone too far now.

Needless to say, I was more distracted than usual during my lessons that day. I think even M. Ivanovich, who was usually both blind, deaf and confused, could tell that something was wrong with me. Time and time again I reproached myself for having helped Erik, and I felt that I would never forgive myself if it turned out Christine had become the victim of some horrible crime. During the day, I went back to that dreadful corridor time and time again, knocking on the doors and hoping for an answer, but it was useless. Erik and Christine did not return.

After my final lesson of the day was finished at 4 o'clock in the afternoon, I had nearly given up all hope of seeing either of them again. Then, as I went to my locker to get my coat, a small piece of white paper caught my attention. It was taped to the door of my locker, and I hurried to examine it more closely. With a feeling of anxious anticipation, I read my name on it, written in the well-known red ink which was so characteristic of Erik. Opening it, I read only these few words:

_"Christine has returned."_

That was all the information I needed. Immediately, I ran towards the staircase leading down to the basement, as fast as my legs could carry me. Scarcely had I descended the stairs when I saw the door of Christine's practice room open and my cousin come out. An enormous sense of relief came over me as I went to meet her.

"Christine!" I cried, giving her a violent hug. "Thank God you are all right! I have been so worried about you!"

"Meg", Christine said calmly, "I am glad to see you."

There was something in her manner which made me uneasy. A strange sadness, a distance, a lack of enthusiasm perhaps? I could not quite put my finger on what it was, but it made me fear the worst.

"You are all right, aren't you?" I asked, observing her closely. "Did something... happen?"

Christine looked around her cautiously, then grabbed me firmly by the arm.

"How about some strawberry pie?" she said with forced cheerfulness, dragging me through the corridor and up the stairs.

She didn't say a word until we had left the college and arrived at our usual table in the nearby café. I ordered in some pie and a cup of tea, but Christine only asked for a glass of water. She was visibly upset. Looking me straight in the eye, she asked:

"How much do you really know?"

"About what?" I asked, but realized as soon as I had said it how false my words must sound. She could only possibly mean one thing.

"Everything", Christine said significantly. "Erik."

"I can see that you might be angry with me for not telling you before", I began hastily, "but he wouldn't let me. And you were in such a state at the time, I couldn't bring myself to say anything when you were so desperate to believe in..."

"...in the Angel of Music. You can say it, Meg. I have been so stupid, naive beyond words. Really, I'm just a silly child! To think that I actually believed that there was an angel, that he sent me messages from my dead father. If it has got me into trouble, it's no more than I deserve!"

Christine laughed, a bitter, disillusioned laugh which was very unlike her. But then again, this was not the Christine I had known before. She was changed - some of that child-like innocence had gone.

"Christine", I said gravely, "I will tell you all that I know about Erik, even if it isn't really all that much. But first, I need you to tell me what happened. Did he do anything to you?"

Christine shook her head.

"It's not what he did, it's what I did."

"Tell me."

Christine ran her finger thoughtfully along the side of her water glass, and started talking.

"You remember that I told you about my encounter with the Angel of Music? Well, he continued giving me lessons, and he seemed to know so much about me, that I felt sure that he was no ordinary living person. My voice developed in an amazing way during those months, as you yourself have heard. I never thought that my Angel was anything but a messenger form heaven."

"But what about the Christmas party?" I asked. "Raoul said that you went to buy something to drink and never returned."

"That is true. I did intend to buy some mineral water, but as it happened, I had locked my purse with my other belongings in the practice room. It's the advantage of having a room of one's own, you know? Anyway, as I came into the room, the Angel was there. He sang the most beautiful song to me and asked me to come with him, so that I could experience music in a way I never had before - that's what he said. And it was strange, it was as if his voice took away any doubts I might have had, or any concerns about leaving you all without letting you know what became of me. I trusted my Angel, you see. I was sure that he would protect me and that all would be well."

"So you went with him? Where did you go?"

"The Angel directed me towards a sofa which is in the room. I pushed it aside and found a secret trap door. When I opened it, I could hear that his voice became clearer. He had started singing again - Erik has the most amazing voice! Have you ever heard it?"

I admitted that I had, and that I could quite understand how it would be impossible to resist such a voice.

"I had to climb down a ladder and through another trap door", Christine continued, "and then I was in the dark, surrounded by a sickening smell. It took some time before I realized that I was inside the system of sewers running underneath the city."

"That explains it!" I exclaimed. "The strong scent of the Oriental perfume Erik wears is meant to mask the smell of the sewers! I noted that there was some strange odor beneath the perfume on the day of my first lesson with him. I haven't thought about it since - I must have got used to it. Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you."

"It was dark", Christine went on, not paying any attention to my remark. "I stumbled on something hard and found a pocket flashlight. Lighting it, I could see that I was in a long tunnel. The Angel's voice beckoned to me and I followed. Whenever I reached a crossroads, I was told which way to go, and so I got further and further away from my practice room. I should have been afraid, but I was not. As I've said, I had full confidence in the Angel of Music. Finally, I reached an open door in the wall. There was a bright light shining out of it. I looked inside, and there he was."

"Erik?"

"Yes, although I didn't know it at the time. I saw only a masked man standing there, looking at me. He was singing, with the voice of my Angel, telling me not to be afraid, reassuring me that he was, indeed, the Angel of Music, but in a different way from what I had imagined. At first I was too shocked to think, then I was afraid of who this man might be and what he wanted with me, and finally I was angry. I was angry with him for having deceived me, but mostly, I was angry with myself for being so gullible. All my life, I had believed in ghosts, fairies and angels. Now I had to pay the price for my superstition."

Christine was quiet for a moment, taking a sip of water. I took a small bite of my strawberry pie, which I had forgotten all about until now. Knowing Erik's methods, I was worried about what Christine might reveal next.

"I tried to run away", she said in a trembling whisper, "but in an instant he was at the door, locking it, and I could see that it was no use trying. Then I asked him who he was and what his intentions were. He told me that his name was Erik, and that his only wish was to hear me sing and help me excel. It was for that purpose that he had led me to his home, he told me. His home! My Angel lived not in heaven, but in the sewers! Suddenly the irony of it all struck me, and I burst out in what must have seemed like a hysterical fit of laughter. I laughed at the two of us and at the whole situation, which would have been ridiculous if I hadn't been so frightened. During all this, Erik said nothing. After a while, I stopped laughing and began crying instead. Sensing that I felt more pain at the loss of my Angel of Music than at the idea of being kidnapped by an unknown man, Erik apologized with absolute sincerity for existing in the flesh, since that was so upsetting to me. It was strange, but there was genuine regret in his voice as he said it."

"He must be a very unhappy man, in that case", I said. "I have suspected that he might be. After all, he seems almost to hide from the rest of the world."

Christine nodded and continued her narrative:

"Erik's apologetic manner gave me a little courage. I tried to tell him that even though his lessons had done wonders for my voice, it was wrong to take advantage of my trust, and certainly there was no excuse for keeping me with him against my will. He answered that he had no intention of doing so, but that at the moment, he wished for us to talk undisturbed. This seemed like such a bad excuse that my anger came back with renewed force. I told him that then, at least, I deserved to know who I was talking with. Then I reached out my hand before he could stop me, and I... oh, God, I wish I hadn't..."

"What did you do, Christine?"

"I tore off his mask."

I sat up in my chair. Erik's mask had been a great mystery to me from the moment I had first seen him, but respect for his authority, and a good deal of fear of the man, had prevented me from trying to reveal its secret.

"What is his face like?" I asked with great curiosity.

Christine shuddered.

"There was no face! That's the horror of it. If only he had had something bearing the least resemblance to a normal face, it wouldn't have been so dreadful. What he had was, I don't know how to describe it, like one big flesh wound. There was no visible skin, only all the disfigured muscles and veins out in the open, like on a rotting corpse. He had almost no nose, and the white bones of his skull shone through in several places. Only his eyes looked alive, and that was the worst part of it. Because in those eyes, I could recognize the character of my Angel of Music, trapped inside that nauseating mass of red flesh which was his face. And he was crying. I couldn't bear to look at him any longer, so I turned away. Erik cursed me, saying that now he couldn't let me go, since I would never return voluntarily now that I had seen his face, then he cursed himself, and at last, he was silent. All I could hear were his sobs of despair. Then I heard footsteps, and when I turned around, he had gone into an adjoining room, which I later learnt was his study. I was left alone to process what I had just seen, and to reflect on my situation."

"Was there no way out?"

"No, he had taken the key to the front door with him, and the only other door was the one through which he had just left. When I looked around, I found myself in a surprisingly large room, lit by numerous candles. The floor was covered with Oriental carpets, and there were some chairs and a mahogany table. Along the walls there was a collection of magnificent paintings and different musical instruments - a violin, a guitar, a number of flutes. In one corner, there was an alcove with a large bed. On examining the bed more closely, I found that there were some women's clothes spread out on it. This turned me cold, because it was evident that they were intended for me, and that Erik had therefore meant for me to stay some time. There was no modern equipment anywhere, no phones, no TV, no computer, in fact, there was probably no electricity at all. It was as if I had been transported a hundred years or more back in time. Suddenly, I heard music from behind the closed door. Erik had started playing the piano - strangely enough, there was a piano in this place! - and was singing, a sad, haunting song which I felt sure was one of his own. He went on singing for a long time, and then everything was quiet. A while later, the door opened and Erik came out, to my surprise carrying a tray of cheese and wine, which he put down on the table next to me. As we both had calmed down by now, I asked him quite coldly how long he intended to keep me as a prisoner. He answered that he would keep me until he was sure that I would sometimes return to him of my own free will, once he let me go. From then on, I knew that my only chance was to be kind to him, to try to convince him that I would not abandon him if he unlocked the front door."

"And today, he let you go?" I asked.

"No", Christine said, "he let me go three days ago. I stayed these last days because I wanted to."

"I don't understand", I said, utterly confused. "He kidnapped you, and you didn't escape when you got the opportunity?"

"During these past few weeks", Christine explained, "we have been singing every day. Erik showed me his compositions, the most amazing pieces I have ever heard. At first, I agreed to sing with him just to humor him, hoping it would make him let me go sooner, but after a while I noticed that the intense study made my voice develop in ways I hadn't thought possible. When we sang together, there were times when I could almost forget the disfigured face behind the mask, and the fact that I was a prisoner. He always served me the very best food and gave me everything I could wish for, and in the evening, he would play his violin for me, just like Father used to when I was a child. Erik was so kind and eager to make me happy, that sometimes it seemed that he was my servant instead of my kidnapper. Not once did he lay a finger on me. He always let me have my privacy and allowed me to bolt his study door from the outside, so I would be sure that he could not approach me while I was sleeping, even though it meant that he himself was locked inside his room during the night. Three days ago, Erik finally unlocked the door for me and said that I was free to go. But at that point, we had just begun working on a new piece of music which he had shown me, and because of that, I decided to stay until I had mastered it. In addition, I didn't want to hurt his feelings by leaving his home immediately, after he had gone to such lengths to make me comfortable there."

"Christine, this is madness! He held you against your will for several weeks, and you still express sympathy for him!"

"He is not the kind of person one hates", Christine answered simply. "If you know him you should know that."

I had to admit to myself that Christine was right. After all, I had protected him for these past three weeks, and kept his secrets for even longer. But I couldn't keep them from Christine anymore. Taking a deep breath, I said:

"You were lucky to get away. Erik may be a genius and an unhappy man, but he is also a murderer. It was he who killed the institution secretary."

Christine stared at me, her eyes wide with horror. She reached out for her drinking glass, but her trembling hand accidentally overturned it, so that the water flowed across the table and down onto the floor.

"You are lying", she said with an unsteady voice, rising from her chair.

She ran out of the café, leaving her handbag behind. I was left with my half-eaten piece of strawberry pie and some very troubling thoughts.


	16. Chapter XV: Negotiation and Counterpoint

**Chapter XV: About Negotiation and Counterpoint**

I suspect that Christine was very upset with me for telling her what I knew about Erik's crime, at least her avoidance of me the following days seemed to suggest something of the kind. Nevertheless, I could tell that despite her accusation that I was lying, my words had had some impact on her. She didn't go near the basement corridor anymore if she could help it, and I don't think she set foot in her practice room for some time after our conversation in the café. My assumptions were confirmed a week later when I received a new note in red ink, taped to my locker, as was Erik's custom. It read:

_"Dear Meg,_

_Christine has not arrived for her lessons lately. I am worrying that she may neglect her studies, and frankly, I have the same concern about you. I trust that you will help set my mind at ease on both accounts."_

It was true that I had not shown up for my music theory lessons lately, since I was simply too afraid of Erik after everything that I had found out about him. He had not let my absence go unnoticed. But there was more - there was yet another demand from him. Erik was no fool. He knew that if Christine had not been opposed to singing for him when they had last met, the only reason she could be so now was that she had spoken to me and I had said something to frighten her. Therefore, Erik evidently considered it my responsibility to set matters right again and convince Christine to come back to him. What could I do? If I spoke to Christine on Erik's behalf, I would surely lead her into danger again, and if I did not, I would be jeopardizing my own safety. After hearing Christine's story, I had been struck again by the extent of Erik's insanity. He was an eccentric, a murderer, a kidnapper and seemed to have an unhealthy obsession with my cousin. I couldn't help but wonder how many other people, besides me, he had used to his own ends. How many people in the college were living under his threats? How many character flaws could be justified by a brilliant mind and an unfortunate disfigurement?

I decided to go to his room to plead with him, to tell him that I would not interfere with his plans, whatever they might be, but that I wanted no active part in them. If I was lucky, maybe he would let me get away with that.

As always, I was uneasy when I walked down the corridor to Erik's room. I could hear from a distance that he was there, since there was a faint sound of piano music accompanying a breathtaking tenor voice in what sounded like an opera aria, but not one that I recognized. When I approached the door, the music stopped and Erik's voice called out authoritatively:

"Enter, Meg Giry! I have been waiting for you."

I opened the door, my knees feeling a little week. In my right hand, I still held Erik's note, crumpled and moist with sweat. Straightening it out nervously, I addressed him, trying not to look at his white mask, which was nearly impossible now that I knew what it concealed:

"I saw your note..."

"As you have noticed, I am a man of my word. I promised you that Christine would come back unharmed, and she has. All I ask for in return is that you keep your promise to me. There, I have reason to believe that you have failed."

There was a cool courteousness in his voice. Involuntarily, I took a step backwards, closer to the door.

"You have told her something to make her fear me", said Erik. "Now, you must correct your mistake. What did you say?"

"I... I told her about Mme Martin's death", I said, realizing that there was no point in lying. "I am sorry."

"And did she believe you?"

"I don't know", I replied honestly. "I think she doesn't want to."

"Then there is still hope", Erik sighed. "Tell Christine that you were mistaken, that you jumped to erroneous conclusions. She mustn't interrupt her voice studies over such a trifle."

"I can't!" I said, my voice starting to tremble uncontrollably. "Please don't make me do that! She is my cousin and I would never forgive myself if something were to happen to her."

"Does that mean that you do not trust me?" Erik inquired. "What reason have I given you for this?"

"I just feel guilty because of all the people I have been forced to lie to, and I don't think I can keep it up any longer", I said, carefully avoiding to answer his question directly. "I won't go to the police, but please, don't ask me to help you again."

"You wash your hands", Erik concluded, with an amused smile. "Whatever happens, Meg Giry will not be to blame. Very well, I will not ask any more favors of you. I have other methods."

"And you will not hurt me or Christine, or anyone else?"

"I assure you, I have always acted in Christine's best interests and will continue to do so. As for you, it would be best if you could put the whole matter out of your mind and not worry about it anymore, since you say you cannot help me. You will be safe, on one condition: If Christine decides to come to me for lessons again voluntarily, you will not stop her."

I agreed to this with some hesitation. After all, Christine was an adult and whatever decision she made now, she would make with her eyes open and fully aware of the risks. It was not my responsibility. At the time, it felt as if I had won a victory against Erik, since I had been released from my "duties" to him. It was only later that I realized that nothing had, in fact, changed. I was still bound by my promise not to interfere with Erik's plans, and if I didn't play any part in them, it was simply because he no longer needed me. He had other methods - he had said so himself.

"Well then", Erik said after I had accepted his conditions, "that seals it. Now I think a lesson in music theory is long overdue. Do you remember what I said before about double counterpoint?"

I admitted that I did not. It was, in fact, the furthest thing from my mind.

"Double counterpoint occurs when you have two independent voices which together form an acceptable whole, with the correct treatment of consonances and dissonances, and when one of the voices can be transposed a certain interval and still fit together with the second voice. Simply put, this enables different voices to trade places with each other, which is the basis of many fugues, for instance."

Not having expected a proper lesson, I hadn't brought my notebook. Ironically, I ended up scribbling down all this information of the back of the note Erik had written to me earlier. It seemed very strange that he had once again taken on the role of my professor, after all that had happened, but I played along with it, since it was obviously his way of stating that everything was to be forgiven and forgotten. I didn't dare to argue with that, and so we went on having what would to the casual observer seem like a perfectly normal lesson in basic counterpoint.

"Your first task", continued Erik, "will be to write a small exercise in double counterpoint at the octave. This means that you must be able to transpose the lower of your two parts up an octave, so that it ends up above the other one. You may use unisons, octaves, thirds and sixths as consonances, but not the fifth, as it inverts in the fourth which is considered a dissonance. Also, you should study these inventions by Bach."

He handed me an old volume of piano music by J. S. Bach, although I could hardly make out the composer's name from the letters on the front page as it was a Russian edition, and directed me to the pages containing the music in question. Saying that I could borrow the music until I managed to get a copy of my own, Erik concluded his lesson by wishing me good luck with my assignment.

I was almost out of the room when Erik's voice stopped me.

"Do not go just yet, Meg, I have something for you."

I turned around. Erik took out a small envelope from a drawer and handed it to me.

"It is a small compensation for the help you have given me", he explained.

"Thank you, but I do not need any money for having helped you", I said, awkwardly. I had the uncomfortable feeling of being bribed.

"Then consider it a reward for academic achievements", said Erik. "Besides, it is no money."

I opened the envelope. It contained something much more valuable than money. In it was a ticket to a performance with possibly the most renowned dancer and choreographer in Europe, La Sorelli. She was on a tour and was to perform in my home town only once, and the expensive tickets had been sold out for months. Before my injury prevented me from dancing ever again, Sorelli had been a great role model to me, and I had been positively spellbound as a child when watching her dance in several ballets which had been broadcast on TV. Her style, her technique, her grace, her innovative choreography, all those things had inspired me to develop my own dancing further and to aim for a career in the profession. How Erik could have known of all this was beyond me, but it must have taken him some trouble to find out, not to mention how difficult it must have been to get hold of the ticket. I was quite touched by this gesture, even though my excitement at seeing the performance was mixed with a feeling of bitterness at the thought that I myself would probably never dance again. As I looked up to meet Erik's gaze, I saw that he understood all this - not only did he understand, but he sympathized. I couldn't help but wonder what joys he himself had been deprived of in his life, what doors had been closed in front of him, because of his own physical imperfection.


	17. Chapter XVI: A Rainy Night

**Chapter XVI: A Rainy Night**

How can I even begin to describe La Sorelli's performance? She was a dancing genius if ever there was one, soaring around the stage with an air of effortless weightlessness, which I knew to be the result of years of practice and enormous strength and control. Her every movement was music, and she danced not only to the traditional ballet music of old, but contemporary music as well. She seemed to master every move, every style, and blend them into something quite distinctly her own. It was pure magic.

For me, however, it was quite a bittersweet experience. I was thrilled at the opportunity to see this magnificent performer live, but at the same time I found myself tracking her movements, wondering how she had learnt them, almost automatically trying them out in my mind, only to realize seconds later that I would never be able to copy them on the dance floor. It hit me several times during that evening as I watched La Sorelli, and every time it was more painful. After the final number, which was the most difficult and beautiful of all, I was nearly in tears. The dancer smiled, took a graceful bow and was rewarded with a standing ovation. I had to look away from the stage, and as I did so, I happened to spot Erik in the audience, his eyes fixed intently on me. When he saw that I had noticed him, he nodded his head at me slowly, and then vanished among the cheering crowd. So brief was his appearance, that I later wondered if I hadn't imagined it all.

I decided to walk home from the theatre. Watching Sorelli's performance had torn open all my old wounds, and the winter night was cold and rainy, just like the night of the car accident a little less than a year earlier. It was nearly eleven o'clock, and the streets were shiny and empty. A kind of gloom came over me, as I remembered how much had been lost in that accident in a matter of minutes. I would never dance again. Christine would never see her father again, or hear him play the violin. And Erik! He had played on those very weaknesses to gain entrance into our minds. Why had he felt forced to do so? Could his face really be as appalling as Christine had described it, and what pain had he suffered because of this? Who was he?

As I walked through the lonely streets, I half expected Erik to jump out in front of me every time I turned a corner, but he never did. Still, I felt his presence everywhere. He was the very embodiment of broken illusions, of talent going to waste, of everything I thought of myself at that moment. I didn't want it to be that way! I shouldn't be studying to be a music teacher, I should be dancing, like I always did before! A sudden feeling of defiance came over me, and in spite of the cold, I threw off my heavy boots and thick winter coat. Standing in the middle of the pavement, my socks already soaking wet, I tentatively took a few steps I had seen La Sorelli make earlier that evening. It was a wonderful feeling to at least pretend to be dancing again, and I went on, trying yet another step, another move, all the time wondering whether or not my legs would continue to carry me. But they did, both of them! I grew bolder by the minute, warming up slowly in preparation for an elaborate pirouette which I hadn't practiced since before the accident. Finally, I threw myself into it with everything I had, thinking that maybe, after all, I would prove all the experts wrong. What followed was a split second of pure joy, a moment when everything felt just right. Then, without warning, came a sharp surge of pain which almost made me scream out loud, and before I knew it my leg had given way and I was sitting on the wet pavement.

I don't know which was worse, the throbbing in my bad leg or my disappointment and anger with myself. I should have known this would happen. And if I necessarily had to go on and make a fool out of myself anyway, I could have chosen a better time and place for it. Now, it was late at night, it was dark, I was soaked to the skin, I had to get up early in the morning, and as if that wasn't enough, I heard footsteps. Someone was coming.

As quickly as I could, I rose to my feet, gathered my coat and shoes and limped behind a van which was parked in a nearby driveway. I didn't want to let anyone see me in this state if I could avoid it. Standing there, I could here the footsteps approaching. There were obviously two of them, probably a man and a woman, I guessed, and they didn't seem to be in a hurry in spite of the weather. To my great annoyance, the steps halted just on the other side of the van.

"It's a good night for a ghost story", a familiar woman's voice said.

I was astonished. It was Christine!

"Why don't you tell me one?" Raoul de Chagny's voice answered, jokingly.

I wondered what the two of them might be doing out here, in the street, in the middle of the night. Then it struck me: as I left to go to the theatre, I had heard Christine talking to someone on the phone. She must have been making plans with Raoul.

"I could tell you something frightening", Christine said, hesitantly, "but it wouldn't make a good story."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't know how it ends."

"Now I'm intrigued", Raoul said, "do tell!"

"I will tell you some day", Christine said, with the voice of one who has made up her mind. "But not now. I had better get home."

"Of course", Raoul replied, sounding a little taken aback.

"Thank you so much for inviting me out to dinner", Christine said, "I really enjoyed it. I wish we could do it more often."

"We can, whenever you like!" Raoul said enthusiastically. "You just have to say the word!"

Christine was silent for a minute. When she replied, there was a hint of sadness in her voice:

"It will have to be only once in a while for now..."

Then they stopped talking. I could hear their footsteps once again, as they continued in the direction of our apartment. I put on my boots and followed the couple at a safe distance, arriving at our front door a few minutes after Raoul had turned to walk back home and Christine had gone inside. I found her seated at the kitchen table with a telling blush on her cheeks. She started as she saw me.

"Oh, Meg, I didn't see you come in! You look terrible, did you miss the bus from the theatre?"

"Yes", I said, unwilling to tell her any details. "I'm very tired, so I think I'll go to bed."

Good night!" Christine said, with an absent-minded smile.

I think - yes, I am almost certain - that she had been kissed.


	18. Chapter XVII: The Rake's Progress

**Chapter XVII: The Rake's Progress**

The following morning, I was exhausted and my leg was swollen and aching. I could barely stand on my feet, much less run to arrive in school on time, but Christine was kind enough to offer her shoulder to lean on, and with her help, I managed to walk slowly. We made it to the choir rehearsal only ten minutes late.

"There you are!" Little Jammes whispered when we sneaked in. "You didn't miss anything, M. Reyer was just about to start talking about this spring's opera project!"

It was a tradition at the music college to stage an ambitious opera production in May each year. The college choir always participated, and the best voice majors were cast in leading roles. M. Reyer would be conducting the whole thing, and Mlle Popeau had initially volunteered as a director, since she had some experience teaching drama in elementary school. Luckily, this had been successfully averted and a professional director had been hired. (However, it later became a standing joke during rehearsals for music education majors to speculate how Mlle Popeau would have done it.)

This year, the opera being produced would be Stravinsky's The Rake's Progress. I was very glad to hear it, since it was one of my favorites and I had seen it multiple times with my mother when I was a child. The plot is basically a variation on the Faust theme. Tom Rakewell, the main character, is engaged to Anne Truelove and they are happy together in the country. Along comes the devil in disguise, Nick Shadow, to tell Tom that he has inherited a fortune, and must travel to town immediately to see to his estate. Nick will come with him as his servant. When Tom arrives in the big city and faces its temptations, he gradually loses both his morals and his money, encouraged by Shadow. In the end, Nick Shadow reveals his true self and demands Tom's soul, but thanks to Anne's love, the devil loses his prey and only manages to take Tom's reason with him back to Hell. Tom is saved, but ultimately goes insane. The music is a wonderful mix between the classical and the modern, and the libretto is remarkably witty.

M. Reyer had already, in his apologetic fashion, tried to start announcing who had been selected for the main roles. At last, there was a sharp helpful whistle from someone in the choir, and finally the room was quiet.

"In collaboration with the singing professor, Signor Piangi, I have decided on the following cast", M. Reyer began.

"That is to say Signor Piangi has decided everything", commented Little Jammes under her breath.

"Nick Shadow will be played by Marcel here", said M. Reyer, pointing towards the baritone, "and you, Pauline, will play Baba, the bearded lady."

"Ah, well, better stop shaving then", said Pauline with mock melancholy, but I could see that she was thrilled to get the part.

"Now, as for the leading couple", said M. Reyer significantly, clearing his throat, "Anne Truelove will be played by Carlotta Piangi, and the role of Tom Rakewell will be played by... well, as it seems, there weren't any sufficiently advanced tenors, so it will actually be played by Professor Piangi himself."

This last piece of information caused a stunned silence among the students. Of course, it could only be expected that Signor Piangi would have favored his own daughter over Christine, even though Christine was clearly better suited for the role. But for him to cast himself in the lead was a little too much, and I don't think I was the only one who thought so. Besides, there was something unsettling about a father playing his daughter's fiancé on stage. The atmosphere in the room had suddenly turned rather awkward, and nobody knew quite what to do.

Only Carlotta looked her usual smug self. Her pride had suffered when Christine had won that scholarship last autumn, and now she glanced maliciously at Christine to see her reaction. My cousin was, however, graceful and didn't display any sign of the disappointment she must be feeling. I could hear other people in the room mentioning her name, though, as if they believed the part should rightfully have been hers. One particularly daring student called out to Carlotta:

"Won't you feel strange acting as if you are in love with your own dad on stage?"

"No", Carlotta said, indifferently. "I don't act. I sing."

That was probably the best summary of Carlotta's musicianship anyone could have given.

As for me, being in the choir suited me just fine. I was happy just to be part of the project, and I had no ambition to be a soloist. It did seem very strange, though, that Christine would be standing next to me in the soprano section instead of center stage. I think Signor Piangi deliberately chose an opera where there was only one large soprano role, since any opera where Carlotta and Christine both had solo arias would inevitably reveal Christine as the superior singer.

"That was very unfair!" Little Jammes exclaimed to Christine as we left the choir rehearsal.

"I agree", I said hotly. "What is worse, there was not even an attempt to conceal it! It was like some kind of power display for Carlotta and her father. I can't believe they got away with it!"

"It is true that I would very much have liked to play the part of Anne Truelove", said Christine in her timid way, "but I don't see that there is anything to do about that now. Piangi is the professor, so he has the final word. I already knew he can't stand me."

"I think we should boycot the whole thing!" cried Little Jammes with the thoughtless frankness which was so typical of her. "Or maybe sabotage it..."

"Don't give up, Christine", I said. "It's early days. Anything could happen. Maybe someone will see this vendetta for what it is and override Piangi's decision. Or suppose Carlotta gets a sore throat?"

As I said these last words, I could have sworn I heard a soft, melodic laugh in my ear. But when I turned around to look, there was nobody there.


	19. Chapter XVIII: Angelic Intervention

**Chapter XVIII: Angelic Intervention**

Rehearsals began, and they were quite a spectacle. M. Reyer did his best to keep it all together, but he was usually overshadowed by Signor Piangi, who had opinions about everything. Carlotta floated around the stage like a queen whenever her scenes were rehearsed, and to my astonishment, I realized that she could hardly read music and had to learn all her phrases by imitation and endless repetition, a proceeding which slowed down the rehearsal pace considerably. While we were all waiting for Carlotta to get it right, I sometimes glanced at Christine, who usually looked quite composed, but if you knew her well it was clear that she was nearly ready to spring up from her chair in frustration. Once or twice, I could hear her softly humming the correct notes.

Marcel and Pauline, on the other hand, were perfect in their roles and exemplary in their professionalism. They had both taken the time to study ahead, so that they knew their parts fairly well already and could start acting and taking directions almost immediately. It was clear that Pauline would make a wonderfully funny Baba the Turk, and I couldn't wait to see her in costume. As for Marcel, he was very believable as the sly devil Nick Shadow.

I think everything would have continued the way I just described right up until the performance, if it hadn't been for Erik. In retrospect, I should have been able to anticipate his next move given his obsession with my cousin and her singing voice, and I think he may even have got the idea from a stray remark of mine. Anyway, after what happened things started moving relentlessly towards the tragic culmination which I have yet to relate to you.

Carlotta was in the habit of occupying a certain practice room from early morning until late afternoon, even though she didn't use it all the time she was supposedly there. This was known to everybody and a source of annoyance to many, as it was a blatant violation of school policy, but whoever entered "her" room claiming that her time was up had to listen to such a tirade of Italian oaths, insults and threats, that they never tried reasoning with the soprano again. It was this very room I was passing one day when I heard the most terrible scream from within.

I ran to the door and knocked.

"What's going on?" I called out. "Are you all right in there?"

There was no answer, so I flung the door open and rushed inside. Nothing could have prepared me for what I found there. Carlotta was lying on the floor, staring wildly at me with frantic terror in her eyes. Her mouth and neck were smeared with fresh blood, and she tried to speak, but the only thing that came out was a horrible gurgling sound. I knelt by her, trying to make out the words.

"Carlotta, what's happened? Are you ill?" I said, trying to stay calm but failing.

She just shook her head and pointed towards a table by the wall. On it was an overturned bottle of mineral water. As I rose to examine it, Carlotta gave a shriek of alarm and gesticulated towards her throat. She was nearly choking on her own blood. I took out my cell phone and dialed the emergency number with trembling fingers. A kind voice answered and went on to ask me a number of questions, very methodically, as if this was just another day at work for him. Where was I? Who was I? Who was in need of help? How old was Carlotta? Was she conscious? Had she swallowed something? In response to this last question, I went once again towards the table with the water bottle. I sniffed the remaining liquid in it gingerly, and was at once aware of a peculiar pungent odor.

"I think she has drunk something corrosive", I told the operator.

"The ambulance will be there in just a few minutes", he replied. "Meanwhile, try washing out her mouth and give her something to drink if she is able to."

I hurried to get some water from the bathroom and brought it to Carlotta, but she wouldn't let me come near her again, even though I explained to her that I was only trying to help. By now, some other students had started to gather outside the practice room and expressed their agitation with intense whispers and horrified gasps.

Soon, the paramedics arrived, lifted Carlotta onto a stretcher and carried her off. I sat down on the floor in the corridor outside the room, feeling sick to my stomach with what I had just seen. I was still sitting there when the caretaker came by a while later, locking the room and telling me that nobody must disturb it until the police had examined it. At first, I didn't understand what he meant, but then I realized what should have been clear to me from the start: a crime was suspected. I rose and left, since I was already late for the opera rehearsal. Of course, I wasn't sure there would be much of a rehearsal today. There might not even be an opera, for all I knew.

Strangely enough, the classroom was packed with people when I arrived. Everybody had gone to the rehearsal, probably because they needed to talk to each other about the terrible thing which had just occurred, rumors of which had already spread throughout the college. M. Reyer was wiping his forehead and looked very shaken, while Signor Piangi was nowhere to be seen. I assumed that he had gone with his daughter to the hospital. The atmosphere in the room was tense, and the students all seemed to be waiting for some new information. When they saw me walking through the door, I immediately became the center of their attention. They bombarded me with questions:

"Meg, it was you who found her and called the ambulance, wasn't it?"

"Is it true that she got acid on her? Was she disfigured?"

"Was there a lot of blood?"

"Did it look like it was done on purpose?"

I answered everyone as best I could, but in truth, I didn't know much more than anyone else at this point. None of us had any idea what would become of Carlotta, and it was clear that we wouldn't learn anything more that day. We were all sent home early, but a lot of people lingered in the cafeteria to discuss the dramatic event.

The next day, we were instructed to come to an extra meeting to find out what would happen to our opera project. Apparently, the college had received some fresh news about Carlotta during the morning, and we were all anxious to find out what it was. I had not slept very well the night before, since I kept seeing Carlotta's face, with wild panic in her eyes, and hearing her desperate but fruitless attempts to mouth a few words to me. Not long before, I had detested Carlotta Piangi for her smugness and condescending attitude and would have been the first person to delight in any small misfortune that might have happened to her. But now, all I could feel was pity.

"Dear students", said M. Reyer awkwardly when we had assembled. "As you all know, Carlotta was severely injured yesterday... I have now received information that she will live, thank God. Apparently, she swallowed some hydrochloric acid and it was a close call. But, of course, she won't be singing in this opera. Her throat has been badly damaged by the acid and they don't know if she will ever fully recover. Now, I was debating with myself whether or not we should go ahead with the project given the circumstances, but the management insisted that we do so, and Signor Piangi seemed to agree that the show must go on, as the saying goes. However, this... unfortunate thing that happened will naturally be investigated by the police, to rule out that... well, any deliberate criminal act, and I am sure you will all be as helpful as you can."

M. Reyer took a deep breath. It was obvious that he was very uncomfortable with the entire situation.

"As for the role of Anne Truelove, it will have to be recast", M. Reyer continued. "Again, the management has suggested Christine Daae, which I think is a very good choice, that is, if she is willing to take on this responsibility on such short notice."

Christine looked startled. She glanced around her at the other students in the room. Most of them seemed very encouraging, except for a small group of Carlotta's devoted followers, who loudly proclaimed that it would be in very bad taste to accept such an offer.

"Christine?" said M. Reyer in a pleading voice. "I understand if it is too much to ask of you to start learning the role this late in the rehearsal process, but we depend on you if we are to go through with this opera. Will you do it?"

After a few moments' hesitation, Christine nodded.

"Yes", she said, "I will do it."

After the meeting I went over the events of the last few days in my mind. Ever since I had found Carlotta in the practice room, this one thought had swirled around my head: Let it not be Erik! Let it be a strange accident, a practical joke gone wrong, even some other student, but please, don't let it be Erik again! But the more I heard - the acid in the water bottle, Carlotta's inability to sing and the nameless "management's" insistence that rehearsals go on and Christine take Carlotta's role - the more convinced I was that Erik had indeed orchestrated the whole thing only to give Christine the chance he considered rightfully hers. The thought of it, and the memory of Carlotta drenched in blood, made me sick. How far was Erik willing to go? And what would happen the next time someone stood in his way, and the next? It might never end! This time, I had to tell the police, even if it meant I could never safely set foot on college grounds again. My word would not be enough as evidence, but if I could get Christine to tell them about her kidnapping and show them to his home in the sewers, then maybe they would find something incriminating there. I had to discuss it with Christine. But where was she?

While I had been busy thinking about what to do next, Christine had gone off somewhere. There was one place I sincerely hoped she was not, but in order to be sure, I had to go down there. Rummaging through my bag, I found the old Bach volume Erik had lent me until I could get a copy of my own. As I had done so a while ago it was only natural that I should want to return Erik's copy now. It's always good to have a pretext - at least this way he couldn't accuse me of prying into matters that didn't concern me. I had a perfectly legitimate reason to go to the basement corridor.

I descended the stairs and went directly to Erik's room, feeling sure that he would notice if I stopped and listened outside the room where Christine used to practice. I knocked on the door and called out Erik's name, but there was no answer. Acting the part I had given myself, I took out the Bach volume, put it in a plastic bag and hung it on the door handle. As I did so, I noticed that a name was scribbled in pencil in the top right-hand corner of the first page. It says a lot about my devotion to the craft of counterpoint at that time that I hadn't noticed it sooner. Music theory had, naturally, been the last thing on my mind lately.

What interested me about the name was that it clearly wasn't in Erik's handwriting. The music must once have belonged to someone else. Struggling for a while with the Russian alphabet, I deciphered the word "Ivanovich". Could this be the same Ivanovich I knew, the absent-minded piano professor? If so, how did a volume of his come into Erik's possession?

When I had disposed of the Bach music, I turned around to leave the corridor, deliberately slowing down my step as I approached Christine's room. This time, I could clearly hear voices from within. First I heard Erik speaking something in a soft voice. I could not make out the words, but when he moments later started singing the beginning of a scene from The Rake's Progress, I understood that it must have been an instruction of some kind. Then, Christine repeated the same passage and proceeded to sing a whole aria. I was stunned. If Christine's voice had been extraordinary when I had heard her perform in November, it was still nothing compared to what I heard now. Without doubt, there was no soprano in the country, student or professional, to match her! She still had all the technical and musical talent that had won her the scholarship, but now, there was something else in her voice, too. A haunting quality - something not quite of this world.

I didn't have to wonder how Erik had enticed her back into his power. The reason for her return was there, it could be heard plainly by anybody. She had come back to him because of the music he inspired in her. For Christine, who ultimately lived only for her art, it was a force impossible to resist. It went beyond logic, beyond fear, beyond right or wrong. And, I am ashamed to say, I too was influenced by it. When I heard the sounds Erik could bring out of Christine, my resolve to expose him to the police crumbled. This enigmatical man might have a dark side, but what I witnessed here was beauty in its purest form.

Who was I to destroy it?


	20. Chapter XIX: Proceeding with Caution

**Chapter XIX: Proceeding with Caution**

"Sometimes when I sing I don't know myself."

Christine looked at me earnestly. During the weeks that had passed since she had started rehearsing her role in The Rake's Progress she had become increasingly pale and tense. I knew that she was once again being tutored by Erik, but every time I had brought up the subject she had answered evasively. Now, however, the performance was only a few days away and her words suggested that she had finally decided to take me into her confidence. We were sitting at our usual table in the café, one of the few places where it felt safe to discuss these matters.

"What do you mean, Christine?" I asked.

"When we first began it felt like I was only learning how to express myself more freely through music. But now... my voice is still mine, I can recognize it, and yet it is as if I'm not the one creating the sounds. I don't possess that talent, that genius. It's all him."

"Erik?" I said encouragingly.

"Yes, and it frightens me! It is as if he is singing through me. Sometimes I can hear emotions in my voice which are foreign to me, things I never felt, never experienced. How did they end up there?"

"Do you want it to stop?"

Christine covered her face with her hands and shook her head.

"I don't know", she said indecisively. "When I'm away from him, when I'm here or at home, I usually feel like it's a nightmare, and that all I want is a normal life and a normal voice that is only my own. I feel like I am losing myself and that I have to escape somehow or I will go mad. But when he sings, or when I sing under his supervision, the music swallows me up and it's like I am a part of something I can't even begin to understand, and then I don't ever want to leave."

She paused for a moment to think.

"That is why I have to ask something of you", she continued.

"Anything I can do to help..." I said.

"The day after the performance of The Rake's Progress, I'm leaving on the de Chagny scholarship tour. I will be away for six weeks, and I can honestly say I will be glad to go. It will give me an opportunity to sing on my own, without any teacher, and it will also give me some time to think over what I want to do in the future. You see, Meg, I'm considering to leave France and go somewhere else to complete my studies, possibly the United States. Maybe I'll even drop out of school altogether and try my luck as a professional singer. I am sure I could never find another tutor like Erik, but perhaps it is for the best, in the long run. You see, I want happiness, a real life besides the one where everything is music and nothing in the outside world matters. That is Erik's life, because he has been deprived of everything else - that is why he has such phenomenal abilities. But he is anything but happy."

"So what do you want me to do, then?" I asked.

"Make sure I go", Christine said. "Force me if you have to. Keep an eye on me during the performance and see to it that I am on my plane the next day. I know Erik says he is happy for me and encourages me to do my best on the tour, but I am afraid that if he knew I might not be returning, he would not let me leave. He would find a way to pull me in again, and I don't trust that I would have the strength to resist him. You know what he can do with his voice."

I nodded.

"There is another thing", Christine continued, a little awkwardly. "I have asked Raoul to come with me on my tour. He has been very kind to me during these last months, and I have been seeing him from time to time. We have found that we still care a great deal about each other, just like when we were children."

"I knew that the first time I saw the two of you talking", I smiled. "I am very happy for both of you, you make a lovely couple."

Christine blushed.

"I wouldn't go as far as to call us that just yet", she objected. "But I have to admit I have thought about it many times lately, even to the point where I have pictured what our future children might look like!"

She laughed, a brief, happy laugh before her face clouded over again.

"Erik mustn't find out", she said gravely. "I don't know what he would do."

"Did you tell Raoul about Erik?" I asked.

"Yes", Christine said. "I told him the whole story, and then I asked him the same thing I just asked you. But I didn't say anything that might lead Raoul directly to Erik, because I feared what would happen if they ever met."

"Raoul strikes me as the heroic kind", I said.

"He would do anything to protect me", Christine confirmed. "When I told him about Erik, Raoul's first thought was to go after him. But I couldn't let that happen, I made him understand it would be too dangerous."

"It still is a very dangerous game, for all of us", I said. "If you really wish to get away that desperately, wouldn't it be safer to just leave now without warning? The opera's just an opera, after all - a school project, nothing more."

Christine shook her head.

"I couldn't do that to Erik", she said. "I promised to sing for him."


	21. Chapter XX: M Ivanovich Reminisces

**Chapter XX: M. Ivanovich Reminisces**

Later that day, I had a piano lesson with M. Ivanovich. I was struck yet again by how very old he seemed as he sat next to me, asking me to repeat my homework once again because his mind had drifted off the first time. I played the first of Mozart's variations on "Twinkle, twinkle, little star" a second time and waited for my teacher's comments. They were very brief and vague.

"All right, my dear, you go on with the next variation for next time, yes?"

I had by now reached a point where M. Ivanovich's absentmindedness had ceased to annoy me, so I just nodded and put the Mozart variations back into my bag. As I did so, I remembered what I had been meaning to ask M. Ivanovich for a while.

"M. Ivanovich", I said, "do you know Erik, the music theory professor?"

The old man turned around with an energy I would not have expected of him, and stared at me, his eyes suddenly bright and alert.

"Why do you ask?" he said tensely.

"Well, I have him in music theory and he lent me a volume of piano music recently. It was a Russian edition and your name was written on it. At least, I assumed it might be your name, but of course, I may have been mistaken..."

"No, no", the old man shook his grey head, "you are right. I have given Erik parts of my music library. He was once my student."

My curiosity was aroused by this new piece of information.

"What was he like?" I asked. "I mean, I have heard him play the piano, so I know he is a fantastic pianist, as well as a superb singer and a composer, but who is he really?"

M. Ivanovich leaned towards me, lowering his voice to a whisper.

"You would be wise not to ask any questions about Erik", he said gravely.

"I think I already know more than I should", I whispered. "And my cousin Christine is very much involved with him. That is why I need to find out more. I think she is in danger."

"Very well", he answered. "If you really want to know I suggest we go somewhere where the walls don't have ears."

We both left the college and continued towards M. Ivanovich's apartment, which was only a few blocks away. The old man looked furtively about him as we went, and hurried as much as his old legs would permit.

The piano professor's home was smaller than I had expected, but completely filled with books, music and Russian furniture. The living room was dark, and its one large window was framed with heavy red curtains which smelt strongly of tobacco. I sat down in a chair and M. Ivanovich kindly offered me some tea before lowering himself into an armchair with great effort.

"Well", he sighed and peered at me, "what is it that you wish to know?"

I didn't know where to begin. I am not even sure I knew what I was looking for. Some clue, maybe, as to the history of this mysterious masked being, anything that could help me understand his actions, or predict what he might do next.

"Everything", I said. "Whatever you can tell me, Monsieur. The things that have happened at the college lately - the institution secretary and now Carlotta Piangi..."

"Ah, yes", M. Ivanovich nodded, "that is all clearly Erik's doing. They are not the first things to happen over the years however, even though these occurrences are usually few and far between as long as Erik is left alone."

"But then Erik is known to be a dangerous man!" I said. "Why do they keep him at the college?"

M. Ivanovich chuckled.

"Not only do they keep him, they pay him well. Very well indeed. I am sure Erik is able to live quite comfortably with the salary he's given, even though he has fewer students than any other professor."

"But why?"

"Child", M. Ivanovich said, "although you are young, I am sure you are not quite as innocent as you look, given what they show on TV these days. Surely you understand that there may be things our managers would be most anxious for people not to know, let alone their own good wives! Everyone has their secret, and imagine what secrets a man like Erik must know, with his eyes and ears everywhere in that building!"

"So he blackmails the management!" I exclaimed.

"It is my guess", M. Ivanovich said humbly. "Either that, or they are too afraid of his little 'pranks' to fire him. Probably both. You see, they could not get to him, because they do not know where he lives."

"Do you?" I asked.

"Yes", M. Ivanovich said. "But I will not tell anybody. I know Erik too well to betray him. He can not be blamed. You do not blame an ignorant child who does not know better. You understand?"

"You mean he can't help himself?" I said, perplexed. "I know he must have had a difficult life, but surely that can't excuse any crime?"

"No, but it may, perhaps, explain a lot..."

"Please, M. Ivanovich, tell me all you know about Erik!" I pleaded. "I have promised him not to interfere with his plans, but now I am afraid what those plans may be, especially since he has taken an interest in Christine. No, it's more than just interest, it is almost like Erik is obsessed with her. And I'm in part responsible for leading her to him, and I don't know what devilish scheme I have helped set in motion!"

"Calm down", the old man said with half-closed eyes. "I will tell you what I know. My memory may not be the best where names and dates are concerned, but the most important things I remember clearly. I first met Erik more than twenty years ago, during the time of the former headmaster."

"How did you meet him?"

"He was auditioning for the college. It was most extraordinary - nobody knew who this young man was or where he came from, and yet he distinguished himself as the very best among the aspiring students. He was an outstanding violinist, singer and composer, and could easily have been accepted as a major in any of those fields. In fact, he already sounded better than most of the professors, even though his technique was a little unorthodox. As for his skills on the piano, they were rather good but not nearly to match his other abilities. He said this was because he could not take a piano with him when he travelled. That was the first hint I got that he did not actually have a home."

"What happened?" I said.

"Erik would have been accepted, of course, had it not been for his mask. He refused to take it off, and when he was asked about it he became very aggressive. In the end it made all the professors insecure, they did not know what to do with him. He claimed not to have a last name, nor a place or date of birth, nor any previous teachers whom we could contact. It seemed that he had appeared out of nowhere and he would, or could, say nothing more. What sealed it was, I think, when a heated argument about this ensued and one of the professors, a hot-headed violin teacher whose name I don't remember, reached for his mask and tore it off. It was a horrible sight, one that I think nobody had expected. Erik was utterly furious and flew at the violin professor, nearly strangling him. It took four strong men to tear him away."

I looked at M. Ivanovich. His face had turned pale as the memory of this scene played in his mind.

"After that", M. Ivanovich continued, "there was no question about Erik being accepted to the college. So he went on, auditioning for orchestras and operas. It was always the same - he was by far the best musician, but he never got the job. It did not always end as violently as at the college, but somehow or another Erik's mask, or his whole appearance, made people uncomfortable. They were afraid of him, sensing, perhaps, that something was not quite right. In the end they always preferred to hire another, a lesser musician, but someone with references and more agreeable manners. Someone who would do as they were told, no doubt. Erik never did that."

"But how did you come to know him?"

"He came to me. It was a while later, after he had been to many failed auditions and become quite bitter with his fellow musicians. Then one day I found Erik at my doorstep. He had remembered me from the college auditions, I had tried to speak in his defense I believe, but nobody would listen to me - a new teacher, and foreign, at that. I couldn't express myself properly. Ah well! Telling me about his misfortunes, Erik asked me for piano lessons, since he had found out there was an opening as a rehearsal pianist at the opera. I agreed, wondering how he could hope to learn enough to secure such a position with relatively little prior knowledge. Well, he was an amazingly gifted student. I let him practice on my piano, as he had none of his own, and in two months I had taught him everything I knew. He went on to apply for the job, and once again was rejected."

"Because of his mask?" I said incredulously. "I would have thought we were more open-minded that that these days."

"He was never given a reason", M. Ivanovich said. "Anyway, I felt sorry for him since I knew how hard he had worked, so I talked with the headmaster of the college, trying to convince him to hire Erik as a substitute piano teacher, just for a few months, while I was away on sick leave after having had some minor surgery. The headmaster reluctantly agreed, saying it was my responsibility. Erik has not left since, even though his tasks have been varied. Sometimes he has taught the piano, sometimes the violin and now music theory. He has never been very popular among the staff, and his students have acknowledged that he is a very good teacher, but they have always been more or less afraid of him, I gather."

"Did he ever talk about his life, or his past?"

"Only briefly and, as it were, by mistake. He mentioned having spent his childhood in some poor orphanage in eastern Europe, but running away at an early age. Once he spoke very bitterly to me about circuses, and in reply to my question he admitted that he had spent some time touring with a circus, displaying his face for all to see. 'The Monster Magician', they had called him. Musically, I was amazed to find out that he was largely self-taught. He had acquired his remarkable abilities by listening to recordings, watching the circus orchestra and borrowing the musicians' instruments at night, or on rare occasions receiving a lesson in exchange for 'other favors', the nature of which he would not specify to me. I once found him studying very intently a map of the sewers surrounding the college. That is how I found out where he had made a home for himself. It appears he had the same problems with finding a place to live as he did with finding employment. Over the years, I believe he has continued building his home down there until it is quite comfortable - I have heard him imply something of the kind. It was I who, years ago, helped him move my old piano down there. That is the only time I have actually seen his home in the sewers, but I found it so extraordinary that I secretly marked the place on a map when I got back."

I paused a minute to take in all this. The story was terrible in itself, but it was the unspoken parts that horrified me the most. If this was the modified version of his past that Erik had chosen to share with another person, I thought, what would the real, complete, uncensored version be like?

"Do you still have the map?" I asked, trying to be pragmatic and pushing all other thoughts aside for the moment.

"Of course!" M. Ivanovich replied. "I have it right here in the bookshelf... or is it in the bedroom?"

M. Ivanovich looked at me, almost as if he were expecting me to answer his question.

"No", he continued, "it is in one of the bookshelves, surely."

He rose and went to a shelf, rummaging through some old books until he had to admit defeat.

"I am sorry, Peggy", he said at last, "I am very tired at the moment and my memory is not what it ought to be. We will have to call it a day. When I do find the map I will give it to you, but you must promise to use it wisely."

"Of course" I said. There was nothing more I could do right now. After all, I couldn't expect the poor man to remember where he had put a map years ago when he couldn't even remember my name.


	22. Chapter XXI: The Night of the Opera

**Chapter XXI: The Night of the Opera**

It was the night of the opera performance. This in itself would have been enough reason for excitement under normal circumstances, but in this case, the circumstances were anything but normal. Christine had given both Raoul and me instructions to keep an eye on her, in case Erik would try anything during the evening. So when I was standing behind the stage in the college concert hall waiting as the audience took their seats, it was not performance anxiety that made my heart beat faster. I looked at Christine. She appeared very serious and focused, but gave me a reassuring smile as our eyes met. Slowly, the sounds from the auditorium subsided as people found their seats. The opera could begin.

As the opening chords of the prelude sounded and Christine and Signor Piangi went on stage for the first scene, I took a few moments to stand in the wings and observe everything. The auditorium was full - I don't think there was a single empty seat to be found. On the front row, I could see Raoul and his father. Raoul was looking quite tense, and I was sure his mind was preoccupied by the same concerns as mine, while his father's face showed nothing but anticipation. Next to them sat Mlle Popeau and Mme Dubois, still carrying on a whispered conversation, until Philippe de Chagny hushed at them authoritatively. A few seats further away, I could see M. Ivanovich, and, to my surprise, Carlotta. She must have been released from hospital a while ago, but I couldn't imagine that she would want to see the opera she should have starred in now that she herself might never sing again.

M. Reyer, looking quite nervous, was conducting the orchestra. I recognized most of the musicians from casual encounters in the corridors, but apart from Louise Jammes, who played the flute, and a percussionist I had met at the Christmas party, I didn't know any of them personally.

From the moment she started singing, it was clear that this was Christine's night. Her very first notes, pure, angelic, crystal clear, captivated us all by their sheer unearthly beauty. Signor Piangi, in spite of all his experience, paled in comparison, and he even seemed quite a ridiculous figure when the plump, aging tenor tried to pose as Tom Rakewell, a supposedly young man. This was never clearer than at the beginning of his first solo, when his statement "_Here I stand, my constitution sound, my frame not ill-favored..._" produced some audible chuckles from students in the audience.

Subsequently Nick Shadow appeared, telling Tom Rakewell that his hitherto unknown uncle had just died, leaving him a fortune. Marcel was very captivating as the devil, mixing his usual good sense of humor with a suitable amount of subtle malice. I did not have time to stand and watch any more of the performance, as I had to get ready for the next scene, when I was to appear on stage as one of the whores in a brothel.

I must say I really enjoyed performing. As soon as I came on stage in my rather revealing outfit, I made the most of it, doing my best to play the part convincingly, even though I had no solo or anything to distinguish me from the rest of the chorus. Little Jammes was right next to me, and I could see that she was having fun as well. During all the time I was on stage, I quite forgot all about Christine and Erik, and was completely wrapped up in the action, where Nick Shadow brings Tom to a brothel, where he is initiated into manhood by the owner, Mother Goose. As we went off stage, Little Jammes whispered to me:

"That went well, don't you think? Now comes the best part!"

She was referring to Anne Truelove's solo scene, which was the finale of the first act. During the dress rehearsal, we had all been amazed at Christine's performance, and tonight promised to be even better from what we had seen of her so far.

Little Jammes proved to be right. We both watched the scene from the wings, exchanging stunned glances as Christine began:

_"No word from Tom..."_

It was not just that she was in complete command of her voice, the stage and the audience. At this point, she seemed to take control of the orchestra as well and lift it to artistic heights that M. Reyer had not succeeded to do at any time during the evening. Every musician in the room followed her, her very presence seemed to guide them to a better performance. The strange thing is that I don't even think Christine was conscious of what she was doing. She seemed to be possessed by a kind of musical genius which was contagious. I could see in the musicians' faces that they felt it, too, and were as amazed as we were. As for the audience, it was as if they were all holding their breaths, afraid that any sound might break the magic. This strange atmosphere was still in the room when Christine started singing her final Cabaletta:

_"I go to him.  
Love cannot falter,  
Cannot desert;  
Though it be shunned,  
Or be forgotten,  
Though it be hurt  
If love be love  
It will not alter."_

And that's when I knew. The fervor in her voice as she sang those words told me what I should have understood from the beginning of the scene. Christine was once again under Erik's spell. She was singing for him, promising to join him once again, unable to resist the influence he had over her. As she went on singing, an element of extatic resolve came into her voice. It sent shivers down my spine, in part because the performance was so perfect, so intense, but also because I suspected it was, in fact, not an act at all. Her eyes were fixed on a spot in the back of the auditorium, but when I tried to follow her gaze, there was nobody there. I realized then that we could very well lose her again, in a way we already had, but I was too entranced by the music to even care.

_"O should I see  
My love in need,  
It shall not matter  
What he may be.  
I go to him.  
Love cannot falter,  
Cannot desert.  
Time cannot alter  
A loving heart,  
An ever-loving heart."_

When Christine had ended her final triumphant high C, the audience were at once on their feet, clapping and cheering like mad. I have never experienced anything like it - the reaction was so strong and so immediate. Christine, however, did not seem to take notice of it. She was in a world of her own, flushed, out of breath, intoxicated, hardly aware of what happened around her. I saw her nearly bump into a prop as she left the stage, and she didn't come back to take a bow even though everybody was calling her name. I hurried backstage to talk to her, but she was absentminded and only replied with a few words that everything was fine and that she needed a few minutes' rest.

The second act passed rather uneventfully. When we were not on stage, Little Jammes and I sat in a nearby room, eating fruit and lazily discussing the plot of the opera. Meanwhile, I tried to keep an eye out for Christine, but she spent most of the time, except for the one scene when she was singing, reclining in an armchair and seeping on a glass of water.

"I think I like the advice Nick Shadow gives Tom in this act", Little Jammes mused. "If you really want to be free, act neither according to your passions nor your reason. Do things you don't want to do and don't have to do, and your life becomes exciting. That's kind of deep, isn't it?"

"You think so?" I said, ironically. "I have been doing that all year and it hasn't been all that great, I can tell you."

"Ah, but it gets me a husband!" said Pauline, in her costume as Baba the Turk. She was headed for the stage and already in character. Her long brown beard was a little tangled. Even when we weren't on stage with her, or anywhere near the stage, we could still hear her melodramatic monologues and tantrums echoing throughout the building. Pauline was an excellent bearded lady.

For us in the chorus, there was more to do in the third act. First, we were posing as a crowd at the auction where Tom Rakewell's property is sold after he has married Baba the Turk and then spent all her money on a useless business venture. Later, after the final showdown where the devil reveals his true self to Tom and demands his soul, but Tom wins it back through a game of cards at the cost of his sanity, we were playing the parts of madmen in an asylum. This was, I thought, the best part of it all. A few of us had actually got hold of authentic strait jackets, and I was one of the lucky ones. It is a slightly claustrophobic feeling not to be able to move one's arms, but I was confident that Little Jammes would untie me as agreed once the opera was over.

The singers in the chorus were scattered across the stage, lying down on mattresses or crouching like monkeys, and in the middle of it all, right underneath the ridiculously oversized chandelier, Signor Piangi lay flat on his back, bathing in sweat and singing his final solos, not without some difficulty due to his awkward position. As we were singing the madmen's chorus, the lyrics made me think about Erik and what M. Ivanovich had told me about his sad existence:

_"Leave all love and hope behind!  
Out of sight is out of mind  
In these caverns of the dead.  
In the city overhead  
Former lover, former foe  
To their works and pleasures go  
Nor consider who beneath  
Weep and howl and gnash their teeth.  
Down in Hell as up in Heaven  
No hands are in marriage given,  
Nor is honour or degree  
Known in our society.  
Banker, beggar, whore and wit  
In a common darkness sit.  
Seasons, fashions never change;  
All is stale yet all is strange;  
All are foes, and none are friends  
In a night that never ends."_

It was as if we were all singing out Erik's feelings tonight, and I couldn't help but wonder if he had played a part in choosing this particular opera to be performed at the college. This cry of despair, this hopeless darkness, was all too real for that masked man who was living somewhere in the sewers underneath the college. And I knew that he had one wish only - the very thing that played out on the stage this moment.

Christine, in the role of Anne Truelove but very much like herself, came to visit the asylum, to meet her beloved Tom one last time. The two unlucky lovers were reunited in that dark place, and Anne started singing her fiancé to sleep:

_"Gently, little boat,  
Across the ocean float,  
The crystal waves dividing:  
The sun in the west  
Is going to rest;  
Glide, glide, glide  
Toward the Islands of the Blest."_

Christine was looking at Piangi when she was singing, but it was clear that her sweet words of comfort and forgiveness touched us all deeply. We all had our troubles, big or small. Things we had done wrong or wrongs we had suffered at the hands of others. Dreams that had amounted to nothing, or had been violently shattered. I looked around me at the others on stage, and the faces I could see in the audience. Many were crying, for reasons known only to them. M. Ivanovich took off his glasses and wiped them with great care. Next to him, Carlotta was looking intently at Christine, her face wet with tears. But it was the expression in Carlotta's eyes which surprised me the most. Yes, there was bitterness and the pain of feeling inadequate - a feeling I knew only too well - but above all, there was genuine emotion. It was ironic that Carlotta seemed at last to have learnt to appreciate the true meaning of music, now that she would never be able to produce it herself again.

As for me, I was having great difficulty singing with the chorus. My voice choked as I thought of all the pain of human existence: Christine, who sang like an angel but still grieved the loss of her father. Raoul, who was afraid of losing the girl he loved to a mad genius he had never met. M. Reyer, who worked hard but was never respected. My mother, who had been abandoned by my father and never loved since. The pale man in the second row, who I had been told was the widower of the late Mme Martin. Carlotta, who had lost her voice. I thought about myself, and my injury that would prevent me from ever being a dancer. And Erik! Erik was the most miserable of all. As if responding to all this, Christine's voice rang out in the hall, soothingly, like some divine grace:

_"Lion, lamb and deer,  
Untouched by greed or fear  
About the woods are straying:  
And quietly now  
The blossoming bough  
Sways, sways, sways  
Above the fair unclouded brow."_

I don't know how I managed to sing my part the next few minutes that followed - I am not even sure that I did sing. What I do know is that Christine finished her last duet with Piangi and left the stage very softly. At that point, Piangi was still lying on his mattress singing, but he might as well have been yodeling, because nobody really listened to him. We were all still in a daze after Christine's final performance. What the Italian singing professor did was of no great interest to any of us. Maybe that is why we didn't see what was about to happen. At least, I didn't. All I know is that suddenly, there was a loud sharp sound followed by a scream and a horrifying crash, and then everything went black.


	23. Chapter XXII: The Second Tragedy

**Chapter XXII: The Second Tragedy**

"Please let me out, I have to get out of here!"

"Won't someone explain what is going on?"

"Dear God, it was the chandelier... didn't you see it?"

"Is anybody hurt? Where is the light?"

The concert hall was pitch black, but the room was buzzing with voices, some confused, others frightened or angry. Nobody was sure exactly what had happened, but we all sensed that whatever it was, it must be serious. As a minute passed in darkness, word spread that it was the large chandelier which had fallen down. It seemed unbelievable that most people hadn't actually seen it fall, but such was the power of Christine's last performance that a majority of us had been distracted by the thoughts and feelings it had evoked. Now, as it became clear that the electricity had gone out and would not be returning soon, a caretaker opened the emergency exit at the side of the stage. It led out to the courtyard, and in the last faint daylight of the spring evening we could finally witness the whole horrible scene.

The chandelier had indeed crashed onto the stage. Underneath it lay Signor Piangi, in a pool of blood. I was close enough to see that his skull had been cracked open by the heavy glass, and the vacant stare in his eyes revealed at once that he was dead. People around me screamed and cried, some rushed towards the exit, others to the stage. Carlotta had risen from her seat, frantically mouthing the word "Papà", but the only sound that came out was a hideous inarticulate croak. I felt as though I was going to be sick, but was unable to look away. My mind was blank.

I don't know how long I had been standing there when Raoul suddenly shook me by the shoulder.

"Where is Christine?" he said with desperation in his voice.

At first I didn't understand what he meant.

"She must be backstage", I said.

"No!" Raoul said frantically. "I already looked. She isn't there. Not in the dressing room either, or the bathroom, or in the courtyard. And she isn't here."

Only then did the full significance of his words dawn on me. This was what we had been fearing and looking out for. Now, it had happened!

"Where is this demon, this 'Erik' creature?" Raoul continued, grabbing me by the arm. "Tell me where he has taken her!"

"I only know he lives somewhere in the sewers underneath the college", I said. "There is a trapdoor in Christine's practice room, but I have no idea where to go from there."

"Then show me the door, Meg, for God's sake!" Raoul pleaded. "There is not a second to lose!"

I didn't pause more than a few moments to think. Part of me thought it would be very unwise for Raoul or me to try to pursue Erik on our own, but on the other hand, there was no time now to wait for reinforcement. If Erik had found out that Christine was planning to go away with Raoul, there was no telling what desperate actions jealousy and rage might drive him to. He had already brutally killed a man merely to create a distraction while he abducted Christine. It was with this in mind that I led Raoul to the backstage dressing room and nodded towards Christine's purse, which was lying on a chair.

"The key to her practice room must be in there with her other keys", I said. "I know what it looks like."

As I was still in my strait jacket, I couldn't open the purse myself. Raoul rummaged through it and, with my help, found the key without much delay. He was immediately on his feet again.

"Where is this room?" he asked.

"Halfway down the basement corridor, to the left. I'll show you."

"No, I'll go alone. Someone has to stay and alert the police", Raoul said in the voice of one who has made up his mind.

"Raoul, no, it's too risky!" I said.

"I am not helpless", Raoul said, opening his suit jacket just enough to reveal a revolver hidden underneath it. "This belonged to my grandfather. I took it from the attic this evening because I was afraid something like this might happen."

"Is it loaded? Do you even know..."

"I will be all right", Raoul said, smiling at me bravely as he hurried away.

I tried following after him, but he was too quick for me. Since the accident, I was not a very fast runner. The last thing I managed to call after him was to beware of Erik's voice if he started singing, but I couldn't be sure if Raoul had heard me.

After Raoul had disappeared towards the basement corridor, I didn't know what to do. Instinctively, I wanted to run after him and try to catch up with him, but I was sure that he was already well on his way towards the sewers by now. What worried me the most was his courage - it indicated that he had no idea what a dangerous opponent he would be facing. How could he? Raoul de Chagny was hardly more than a boy and had, form what I had heard, lived a very sheltered life. I was sure he had never met anyone like Erik before.

But what good could I do, if I went with him? I was small, thin, not very strong, and much less fit than I had once been. It was true that I had been on relatively good terms with Erik in the past, but in a situation like this I doubted that that would be of much use to me. Surely, the wisest thing for me to do now was to make contact with the police and persuade them to track down Erik as fast as possible.

With this in mind, I went back into the concert hall. The audience had started to leave, ushered out by the caretaker and other members of the college staff. Asking one of them for help, I finally got rid of my restraining costume. Meanwhile, I heard fragments of a phone conversation, and understood that the police were on their way, along with an ambulance. The stage had been cleared of people and someone shouted with a powerful voice that nothing must be touched. It was still dark, except for the small ray of light from the emergency exit. From what I could understand, the power was out everywhere in the building, and it was clear that someone had tampered with the fuses.

"Child, I have been looking for you."

I suddenly found myself face to face with M. Ivanovich, who was peering at me through his glasses. He was evidently very upset.

"I found the map this morning", he said. "I have been meaning to show it to you. But now, I think it would be better to wait and hand it to the proper authorities. This is certainly Erik's doing."

"There may not be time, M. Ivanovich", I cried. "My cousin Christine has gone missing, and I am sure she is with him. We need to find her before it is too late!"

"You should not go after him by yourself", M. Ivanovich objected.

"I know, but Raoul de Chagny is already in the sewers, looking blindly for Erik's home. If I go down there with the map, at least I can help him find his way."

"What madness!" M. Ivanovich sighed, shaking his head. "Then take it and go to him. But be careful, and whatever you do, do not interfere unless you have to! I will stay here and talk to the police when they arrive, and hopefully they will be with you soon."

He handed me a yellow old sheet of paper, with one spot clearly marked with an X.

"Thank you, M. Ivanovich!" I said and prepared to leave.

"Wait a little!" he called. "I found something else too, as I was looking for the map. I know it is not much against Erik, but I can not permit you to go completely unarmed."

Drawing me close to him, M Ivanovich gave me a small bottle with an old label in Russian.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It is something that was used in the old days, during the war. Rather than being taken as prisoners, some high officers preferred to take a more dignified way out."

"Poison?" I said, incredulously.

"Yes. Only if you must, of course. If Erik intends to hurt you, or your cousin. He has a wine cellar, you see. He appreciates a glass of fine wine in the evening. It is unlikely, but the opportunity may present itself, and if so..."

"I won't kill him!"

I was appalled.

"Of course not", said M. Ivanovich. "But keep the bottle all the same."

Finally, I agreed to put it in my pocket, since I feared that M. Ivanovich wouldn't let me go otherwise. But I had already promised myself that no matter how desperate the situation may become, I would not open that bottle.

As I left for the basement corridor, I could hear the old Russian's voice calling out behind me, clear and without a trace of his usual confusion:

"Good luck, Meg Giry!"


	24. Chapter XXIII: Into the Underworld

**Chapter XXIII: Into the Underworld**

As I descended the stairs, I found myself looking at that dark corridor which I had dreaded for so long. Now, more than ever, it sent shivers down my spine to walk along those locked doors, those empty rooms, hearing nothing but my own footsteps. More than once, I thought about turning around and going back, but then I thought about Raoul de Chagny and how utterly unprepared he was to face this danger, with or without his grandfather's revolver. If I could only find him, and find a way to make certain that Christine was not in any immediate danger, maybe I wouldn't have to confront Erik in his lair at all. I could stay with Raoul in the sewers, at a safe distance, possibly observing without being seen until the police arrived.

Such was my intention when I approached Christine's practice room. Raoul had left the door ajar, so I had no difficulty in getting in. The first thing that struck me as I entered was a strong, nauseating smell. I discovered that the sofa had been moved and the trapdoor was open. Peering down into the darkness, I could see a ladder leading to yet another open trapdoor. Making sure I could read the map in the weak light of my cell phone, I descended.

When I reached the sewers, I stopped and listened. Perhaps there was some way I could locate Raoul by listening to his footsteps. But there was nothing. Either he had already reached Erik's home, or he was progressing very carefully. Or else... There was a third possibility, which I preferred not to think about.

Suddenly I heard a squeak, and something brushed past my ankle. I had to bite my lips not to scream out loud. There were apparently rats here. Regaining my composure, I listened again. This time, I thought I heard voices far away - a man's and a woman's voice. I couldn't make out what they were saying or what direction the sound came from, but there was an unmistakable tone of fear in the woman's voice. A few more blurred sounds followed, and then, loud and clear, a shrill cry:

"Help! Somebody help!"

Christine's voice echoed through the tunnels. I knew then I couldn't just stand and wait anymore - the danger was too imminent. Screening the light from the display on my cell phone with my hands, I read the map carefully and then started feeling my way in the darkness, slowly and as noiselessly as I could. There were no more cries for help, but only a subdued sobbing, which frightened me even more.

It seemed like the tunnels were endless. On the map, it had all appeared so simple, but I was surprised by the distance I had to walk. Maybe, if I had been able to walk straight and at normal speed, and if I had been able to see rather than only feel the walls, it wouldn't have seemed such a long way. I think my perception of time was altered, too, by my agitation. Luckily, I could no longer smell the revolting fumes of the sewers, as my nose had got accustomed to them. My eyes, also, were getting used to the darkness at last, and I could vaguely discern the walls and the intersections of tunnels.

Finally, I turned around a corner and found myself looking at that last stretch of tunnel leading up to Erik's home. The tunnel didn't actually end there, but it opened onto a larger tunnel running at straight angles with the one I was in, so that Erik's front door was located near what appeared to be a three-way crossroads. The door was open, and a ray of warm yellow light emanated from the room within. I halted at some distance from the door, pressing myself against the wall and trying to see what was going on inside the room.

Christine was there, sitting motionless in a chair. Erik I couldn't see, but I heard his voice:

"I am sorry I had to do that, I am fully aware that it is not the conduct of a gentleman. You are not hurt, I hope?"

There was no reply from Christine.

"You must understand I could not have you running around in such a state", Erik continued, "you might have harmed yourself."

"What is it to you?" Christine finally answered, coldly. "You already have so much on your conscience. What is another life?"

Erik sighed and I could see him approaching Christine and kneeling by her chair.

"If it is your life, everything", he said. "I would never wish you any ill, Christine. But I cannot lose you. I can never let you run away with him, with that... that ignorant boy!"

Erik's voice had turned sharp and hateful as he spoke of Raoul de Chagny, and I felt a surge of anxiety when I thought of what might have become of Christine's friend, who was nowhere to be found.

"Christine", Erik went on, almost pleadingly, "you do not have to be afraid of me. I could make you very happy. I have made a new mask, one that looks almost like a real face, I could wear it at all times and you would never have to see me! And you would have everything you asked for - I would live only to serve you. Every day, we would sing together, and make music the world up there could never dream of! We would be in a heaven all of our own - can you imagine it? Oh, Christine... do you think you could learn to forgive me, perhaps to care for me a little as I care for you?"

"Erik, untie me, please, it hurts", Christine said weakly.

Erik shook his head.

"You know I can't do that", he said.

So this was why Christine wasn't moving in her chair, even though the door was open! This was why she had cried out for help a while ago! Well, I thought, it wouldn't be long now. Hopefully, the police would be here soon, Erik would be brought to justice, and Christine would be free. All I hoped was that they could continue talking calmly like this for a little longer, and that nothing more dramatic would happen.

The moment I had thought this it became clear that my hopes were in vain. Suddenly, a gunshot rang out in the dark tunnels. Erik rose to his feet at once, alert like a cat, and with a final glance at Christine, rushed out through the door. I pressed myself as closely to the wall as I could, holding my breath and trying my best to calm my pounding heart. But Erik didn't run in my direction. He flew noiselessly down one of the other tunnels, evidently familiar enough with the acoustics of the sewers to know where the echoing sound had originated. When he had disappeared, my first thought was to run to Christine and free her. I even took a few tentative steps in the direction of the door, but before I could go any further, there was the sharp sound of another gunshot, followed by sounds which might indicate some kind of struggle, and finally a blood-curdling, triumphant laughter. It all seemed to be so close that I dared not move another step. And true enough, within a few seconds two figures appeared approaching the doorway. First came Raoul, walking with an uncharacteristic stiffness, and then, only a few feet behind and with something metallic gleaming in his hand, came the ghost-like figure of Erik.

"My dear", called Erik in a clear, casual voice. "May I introduce you to M. de Chagny, a late visitor. I found him lost just around the corner, shooting at rats as it appears. How clumsy of me not to have given him any directions, after all, I was half expecting him!"

"Raoul!" cried Christine with horror in her voice.

"Christine!" replied Raoul eagerly. "Are you all right?"

Erik shoved Raoul into the room, and I could see that the revolver Raoul had brought with him had now somehow come into Erik's possession.

"My door is, as you see, always open for you, young Monsieur", said Erik suavely. "Now, please step inside, as the spider said to the fly."

Raoul could do nothing but follow Erik's orders. When he saw Christine helplessly tied to a chair, he immediately rushed to her side and untied the knots with frantic energy. Erik just stood patiently beside them, the revolver in his hand. When Raoul had freed Christine, she rose and clung to him in a desperate embrace.

"Christine, are you injured?" Raoul said. "How long were you tied up like this by that monster?"

"I am fine", Christine said with a trembling voice. "Erik only tied me to the chair a little while ago, because I threatened to kill myself if he didn't let me go."

Raoul looked at Erik with flaming eyes. Erik still said nothing, but pointed the revolver at Raoul to show him that any attempt at escape was useless.

"Erik", Raoul finally said, "that is your Christian name, isn't it?"

"No", Erik replied coolly, "but it is the name I have chosen for myself".

"Surely, Monsieur Erik", Raoul continued courageously, "you must see that Christine will never love you if you keep her here against her will!"

"I don't intend to", Erik said chivalrously. "I mean to let the lady choose for herself."

"What do you mean?" Raoul said, stunned.

"She may choose between her own freedom... and the life of her boyfriend!"

Where was the police? Why weren't they here? I was starting to believe that they had dismissed M. Ivanovich's story as the ramblings of a delusional old man, and that they weren't coming at all. If so, there was no help to be found. Christine and Raoul were at the mercy of this lunatic, and I couldn't move for fear that Erik might detect me. This was his turf, and he held all the cards. And he knew it.

"Well, Christine?" Erik said. "Will you stay with me, or shall I put your little friend here out of his misery?"

"Erik, no, please don't do this!" Christine sobbed.

"Then don't make me!" replied Erik, violently.

"Christine, never mind me", Raoul said. "I don't want you to make such a sacrifice for my sake. I'd rather take a bullet."

He tried to put on a brave face, but a deathly pallor revealed how frightened he was. Christine sank down in the chair once again and buried her face in her hands. Erik stood by her side, ready to fire, his gaze not leaving Raoul de Chagny for a moment. It was a hopeless situation. A few minutes passed in silence, each nightmarish second seeming like an eternity, and we all waited with bated breath. Finally, Erik lost his patience.

"I have given you plenty of time to consider", he said sharply to Christine. "Now, I want to hear your final answer."

At this point, I think both Raoul and I were prepared for anything, even for the worst. The only thing we weren't prepared for was what actually happened. Christine started singing. Rising from her seat and turning to Erik, she reprised her lullaby from earlier that evening, the song that, in The Rake's Progress, Anne sings to her betrothed after he has lost his sanity and she visits him in the gloomy asylum:

_"Gently, little boat,  
Across the ocean float..."_

While she sang, she touched Erik's thin hands and arms. Then, very tenderly, she moved her hands up towards his face and gently, lovingly, removed his mask. I was too far away to get a detailed view of what he looked like, but I could tell from Raoul's reaction that it must be a terrible sight. However, Christine just went on singing, seemingly undisturbed. She caressed Erik's forehead, his cheeks, his jaws and, as he started sobbing violently, brushed the tears from his eyes. When she had stopped singing, she turned her face up towards his, and with a sigh of "Poor Erik!" leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. Erik stiffened awkwardly in her embrace, as if he had never experienced such tenderness before. When Christine finally let him go, after nearly half a minute, Erik collapsed onto the floor, his whole body shaking with sobs. She knelt down beside him, holding him in her arms and rocking him like a baby for a long time, until he had calmed down. Then she rose, and as she did so, Erik too started singing - a voice broken with tears and full of sorrow, but still the most beautiful voice in the world. It was another part of that same scene in the opera, as if he, like Christine, used those lyrics and that music as a shield to be able to express emotions which would have been too intense to bear if they had put them into words entirely their own:

_"O merciful goddess, hear the confession of my sins._

_In a foolish dream, in a gloomy labyrinth  
I hunted shadows, disdaining thy true love;  
Forgive thy servant, who repents his madness,  
Forgive Adonis, and he shall faithful prove."_

Christine replied him on cue, but with utter sincerity:

_"What should I forgive? Thy ravishing penitence  
Blesses me, dear heart, and brightens all the past.  
Kiss me, Adonis: the wild boar is vanquished."_

And Erik sang the final line, leading up to the last duet of Anne Truelove and Tom Rakewell:

_"Embrace me, Venus: I've come home at last."_

As they proceeded to sing the duet, I saw at last clearly what had been the bond between Christine and her Angel of Music. When they sang together, nothing else seemed to exist. Their voices blended perfectly and created harmonies of such remarkable beauty that I could easily understand why Christine had faltered in her decision to leave Erik for good. They must have sung together like this on countless occasions, but the intensity in their voices now made it clear that they both knew this would be the last time:

_"Rejoice, beloved: in these fields of Elysium  
Space cannot alter, nor time our love abate;  
Here has no word for absence or estrangement  
Nor Now a notion of Almost of Too Late."_

After the duet had ended, Erik turned abruptly to Raoul, returning the revolver to him.

"Go", he said tonelessly. "Take her with you. There is a hidden exit some distance to the left down the tunnel. It opens on a small street, but you will find your way from there. Just go now."

Christine seemed to hesitate for a moment, but Raoul took her firmly by the hand and led her towards the door. When she had reached the doorway, she turned around one final time before disappearing with Raoul into the darkness, and in an unsteady voice spoke a few lines, which I recognized as a quote from the opera:

"In this earthly city we  
Shall not meet again, love, yet  
Never think that I forget."


	25. Chapter XXIV: The Angel's Flight

**Chapter XXIV: The Angel's Flight**

When Christine had left with Raoul, I drew an enormous sigh of relief. I realized I hadn't moved a limb for at least half an hour, and my arms and legs were aching as I slowly tried to awaken them with small movements. My first intention was to leave quietly the way I had come, or through the exit which my cousin had just used, but one look at Erik, lying face down on the floor of his lair, his shoulders shaking and his muffled voice speaking Christine's name over and over, changed my mind. I suddenly found, to my surprise, that all the fear I had ever felt for the man was gone, and now all that was left was sympathy for a fellow human being in pain. Leaving my hiding place by the wall, I walked slowly down the tunnel until I reached Erik's door. Stopping in the doorway for a moment, I looked at him. He was still lying as I had seen him before, and it said a lot about his state of mind that his keen senses didn't seem to have detected my presence. Unnecessarily, I knocked on the open door.

"Erik?" I said.

He started and looked up, quickly, like an unconscious reflex. I caught a glimpse of the most disturbing face I had ever seen. It was exactly as Christine had described it, "like one big flesh wound". It was as if someone had peeled off all the skin of his face, exposing everything that lay underneath: the veins, the red muscles, even the bones. The disfigured lips, the nearly non-existent nose, the sad pale blue eyes, painfully aware of my shocked reaction - all of this made me automatically take a step backwards and reach for the wall for support. Erik quickly turned away from me and spoke, struggling to regain his dignity:

"Meg, would you be so kind as to hand me my mask?"

The mask was lying on the floor just a few feet away from me. I fetched it, and then went over to Erik, bending down to give it to him. As I did so, I heard a strange clinking sound. Erik, hearing it too, looked around him. Too late, I saw what had caused the sound. The bottle M. Ivanovich had given to me, and which I had almost forgotten during the course of the evening, had fallen from my pocket and landed on the floor beside Erik. Before I could reach it, he had seen it and picked it up. He examined it carefully, and I could hear his sharp intake of breath as he read the label.

"What is this?" he said tonelessly. "Where did you get it?"

"I don't know exactly what it contains", I answered truthfully, "but it doesn't matter. I had forgotten I had it, I meant to throw it away."

"Where did you get it?" he reiterated.

"I don't remember", I answered, uncomfortably.

"Don't lie to me!" Erik roared, like a wounded animal. "I know exactly what this is, and who gave it to you. I have seen it myself, years ago, in M. Ivanovich's apartment. He even showed this very bottle to me once, telling me of its contents and its history. You know as well as I do that this is a deadly poison. So even M. Ivanovich, who was once good to me, now thinks that I should be put out of my misery... And he sent you to do it!"

"No, no", I said feebly, "that is not how it happened. Please don't think that! I would never do such a thing..."

"It seems there is not one person in this world who would not be happier, or sleep better at night, if I were dead", Erik mused bitterly, still looking at the small bottle in his hand. After a moment's thought, he added:

"It is true, perhaps, that I have outstayed my welcome..."

"Not at all!" I said, reaching out to try to snatch the bottle from his hand. But Erik was too quick for me and closed his fingers around it possessively.

"Do not try to interfere with my plans, Meg Giry! I have warned you before what happens if you do. I may be a broken man as you see me now, but I assure you, I can still think of at least five different ways to kill you this very moment."

I merely smiled at him. He couldn't scare me anymore.

"I'm sure you could", I said. "But don't you think enough lives have been wasted already, without adding yours or mine to the list?"

"You want to throw me a lifeline", Erik said with something of a challenge in his voice. "And yet, I am sure you would not want me, this disfigured madman, running free and maybe murdering another person the next time something doesn't go his way. Would you?"

I didn't answer, because he was right. For all the respect and admiration I had for Erik's genius, and even though I didn't want to see him dead, I would never feel at ease unless I knew this dangerous man was safely locked up in prison or in a psychiatric ward. In response to my silence, Erik said:

"I thought as much. And I agree with you. Now, would you like a glass of wine to honor this very special occasion?"

"Do I have a choice?" I asked, trying to make my words sound like a joke.

"None whatsoever", Erik said cheerfully, handing me a crystal glass from a cupboard and taking another one for himself. "That is, if you want to live to see another day. I strongly recommend it - I hear the weather is going to be quite lovely tomorrow."

I waited in silence as Erik disappeared into the inner room, and returned a short while later with a wine bottle in his hand. As he opened it, I noticed that it was a very expensive red wine. Erik chivalrously poured some in my glass before filling up his own halfway to the brim. He then unscrewed the lid of M. Ivanovich's bottle, and emptied its contents into the wine glass. I could only watch him, with a feeling of unreality, as if I was part of some macabre melodrama. And yet, Erik was practical enough.

"Come with me into my study", he said. "It is important that you know what to do, because in a while I will not be able to answer any questions."

We left the large room and went into a smaller one. It was lit by several brass candelabras and the scent of the Oriental perfume was particularly strong here. By the wall to the left was a piano and a bureau, and opposite the door there was a large table covered in heaps of what I assumed to be music sheets, and a bookshelf with several bound volumes and more sheet music. But the most remarkable thing in the room was an open coffin, which stood on the floor immediately to my right. It looked as if someone had been lying in it.

"You sleep there?" I asked, astonished.

"One must get used to all things in life", Erik replied casually. "I think it best that I take place inside the coffin before drinking. The poison works fairly rapidly and I don't believe you to be quite strong enough to lift me. When I have emptied my glass, I want you to open the top drawer of the bureau and take the mask you will find there. It is quite a beautiful mask, and it looks rather natural - I only made it recently, for Christine's sake. Help me put it on and throw away this old mask. You don't have to stay with me until it is all over, if you find that too uncomfortable. Go to the other room if you like, finish your wine, then come back. But before closing the lid of the coffin, place the bottles and glasses next to my body, so that there will be no trace of what has occurred. You will not have noticed it, but the coffin is placed on a hidden trapdoor. Once the lid is closed, the trapdoor will automatically open and my remains will be plunged into the grave I have prepared for them."

He spoke unemotionally, as if he were just giving out instructions for another homework assignment. For me, on the other hand, the sadness of it all was starting to sink in, as I realized this man was making preparations to die and I could not stop him.

Erik walked around his study, touching various objects as if he were saying goodbye to them. His eyes rested for a moment on the piles of music on the table - page after page in that characteristic red ink. He lifted one of the pages and looked at it thoughtfully.

"You know", he said, "Bach composed on his deathbed. He practically died composing. Do you know why?"

"No", I replied, noticing with some surprise how difficult it was for me to speak, "because it was his life's work and he wanted to finish it?"

"One might think so", Erik said. "But the answer has more to do with the now forgotten Ars moriendi, the Art of Dying. It was believed in those days that the moment you died was the moment your faith was tried the hardest, it was the moment when God and the Devil fought over your soul. Counterpoint, and especially invertible counterpoint in its strictest form, was believed to be a manifestation of God's perfect order. By occupying your mind with such divine matters in the hour of your passing, you would help secure your place in Heaven."

He was silent for a minute, then with a sigh put the page down on the table again.

"I don't expect there will be much of a struggle over my soul tonight", he said. "I doubt that any angel in Heaven would want to claim it. After I am gone, I want you to burn my music."

I stared at him in horror, but he was clearly in earnest. At that moment, there was an unexpected sound from the sewers - the distant barking of a dog.

"The police?" Erik asked.

I nodded. It must be.

"Then let us make haste", he said, taking place inside his coffin. "I would like to propose a toast. To music!"

"To music", I replied unsteadily.

We both raised our glasses. Mine was trembling. His wasn't.

I don't think Erik's death was what most people would consider ideal, and yet that seemed to be the way he wanted it. He emptied his wine glass quickly, with determination, and almost immediately his breathing changed, becoming more labored, and he writhed in what was undoubtedly severe pain. He looked at me pleadingly, and I quickly got his new mask from the drawer he had indicated. As I removed the old mask from his face, I made a conscious effort not to look away, but to look directly at him, without any apparent fear or disgust. At least I could give him that. The new mask had the appearance of a handsome young man's face, possibly, I thought, the face Erik wished he could have had. When I had fastened the straps of the mask behind his head, Erik lay back in his coffin, looking much more peaceful than before. He gazed at me with those strange blue eyes, seemingly surprised that I was still there. I could feel the tears starting to burn behind my eyelids, and I let them come. It might be a consolation for Erik to know that one person, at least, was crying for him. I didn't leave his side until I was certain that he was no longer conscious. Then an unexpected sense of loss overwhelmed me, and I had to pull myself together in order to carry out the rest of his instructions.

This I did, with one exception. I may have played a part in destroying Erik, but I could not bring myself to do the same to his music. When the coffin with Erik's body had disappeared without a trace into the grave underneath the trapdoor, I went to his table with a candelabra in my hand, prepared to burn whatever I found there. But then I looked through those pages, all scribbled full of notes in red ink. A half finished violin concerto. Several piano sonatas. A collection of songs dedicated to Christine Daaé. A complete score of an opera called "Don Juan Triumphant". I could by no means sightread music perfectly, but what I managed to decipher of those compositions was magnificent. No, I could not keep my last promise to Erik - I could not burn this music. Instead, I went to the bookshelf, determined to find any original compositions hidden there, and to rescue them for posterity. I was still occupied with this when the sound of footsteps and voices reached me from the other room.

The police had finally arrived.

"Is anybody there?" I heard them call out.

I wiped the tears from my face. After taking a minute to compose myself, I stepped out to meet the policemen. There were three of them, and one of the men had a large black dog on a leash. As I came out from the inner room, they were all looking around them in disbelief at the numerous candles, the Oriental furniture, the musical instruments and all the other items one would not expect to find down in the sewers, and which were now the only tangible evidence that Erik had ever lived there. When the three men saw me, they approached me at once.

"Meg Giry?" one of them said. "We were told by an old Russian fellow that you might be down here. As for the other two, the boy and the girl, we have received information that they are no longer here, and that they are both safe. But where is this Erik character, who seems to be responsible for all this?"

I hesitated for a while. How could I relate what had just happened when I could barely understand or accept it myself? Who would believe me if I said that this murderer was also the greatest composer and musician of our time, and the unhappiest person I have ever known? I did not think I would be able to give the policemen a lengthy explanation of any kind without losing my composure once again, so I answered them as briefly as I could. In a way, it was also a truthful answer:

"He got away."


	26. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

It has been a few years since these tragic events took place, and until now, nobody but Christine and myself have known the whole truth about what became of Erik. But recently, there have been so many rumors flying about regarding this mysterious masked genius, and they have caused so much anxiety among the public, that I find I have to reveal the whole story at last. People should know that they have nothing to fear from Erik now, and I also want to give them a more nuanced portrayal of him than that stereotypical image of the "dangerous murderer" which has figured in the tabloids.

I think I mourned Erik more that I had expected to, and more than I would care to admit. After all, I hadn't known him that well. We had never been personal friends in the true sense of the word. I had been his student, his tool, his silent partner in crime, but never his friend. I had admired his genius greatly, but also feared his madness, and my grief, however sincere, was nevertheless mixed with a strong feeling of relief.

Christine was, of course, devastated at the news of Erik's death, but I understood that it didn't come as a complete surprise to her. She had known him well enough to see how tormented he was, and I think she was somehow glad that Erik didn't have to suffer further humiliation during the course of a trial. Christine did not change her plans to go on her scholarship tour with Raoul, and stayed away for more than two months. When she returned to France, she seemed a changed person - more stable, more radiant, more confident in her own abilities. She stayed at the music college for another year, then applied and was accepted at one of the most prestigious schools in the United States. Subsequently, she moved there and has since made quite a name for herself as a professional singer. Raoul came with her as her fiancé, but the last time I spoke with Christine I learnt that their engagement had been broken off. When I asked why, she replied:

"I grew up. Raoul never did."

I believe they are still good friends, though. And I have no doubt they will both be happy with someone else, someday.

I will very briefly relate what became of the other people at the college, as far as their whereabouts are known to me. Little Jammes eventually got accepted into the flute class and is now studying to become a flutist like her sister Louise, who has secured a position in the city symphony orchestra. Pauline and Marcel, the mezzo-soprano and the baritone, have both done well since they graduated and if you ever come to our part of the world you may well hear both of them performing in concert or on an opera stage. Carlotta Piangi's voice never recovered, and after the tragic circumstances around her father's death, neither did her psyche. I don't know where she is now, or what she does. To the best of my knowledge, most of the professors I had while I was a student at the music college still teach there and haven't changed in the least. Only M. Ivanovich is now retired and is leading a quiet life in the countryside, playing the piano and growing vegetables. He is still as confused as ever, but I am sure he is happy.

As for me, there isn't much to say. I stayed at the music college and finished my degree in music education, even though college was never quite the same after that turbulent first year. I now teach courses in music appreciation in high school. My interest in music theory has persisted, and I dabble in composition from time to time, mainly for my own amusement but sometimes writing for my pupils.

Once the police investigation was over, I made sure that all of Erik's music was preserved and I have since been a devoted ambassador of his compositions, making sure they are printed and spread, and arranging performances of them when I can. Christine, too, makes a point of including some of his work in all her recitals. It is our hope that, in time, Erik's crimes will be forgotten and he will be remembered for his music, and all the beauty he created during his too short and much too miserable life.

That is another reason why I am writing this - to let you know that Erik existed and that his music still does.

My name is Meg Giry, but that is of no importance. You may well forget my name, as long as you remember his.

-THE END-


End file.
